


What's Past Is Prologue

by writernotwaiting



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Magical Realism, Post-TDW, Romance?, Science Fiction, eventual salaciousness, kitchen magic, references to neo-pagan practices, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writernotwaiting/pseuds/writernotwaiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is discreetly conducting research in a small, obscure university library, where Meena happens to work. And of course, he does what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Magic Touch

_Poor man!_ She thought to herself — _he is clearly not a mid-westerner_. He had been trapped by Marilyn, the receptionist — again — and there he stood with a tight smile on his face for at least 10 minutes. _I don’t know which one needs to be rescued more. Him from death by inane gossip, or her from some no doubt violent death when he finally decides he can’t listen any more._

“Hey, Marilyn!”

“Meena! What can I do for you?”

“I think I need some help with these requisitions — you know I can never get these forms just right.”

“Of course,” Marilyn chirped back at her.

Meena slid over next to Marilyn to allow Mr. Lofgren to escape, glancing over only to catch him rolling his eyes as he turned on his heels to hide in his cubicle once more. She tried to catch his eye — just to give him a non-verbal apology for Marilyn’s obliviousness — but he had already turned away.

She shrugged to herself as Marilyn sat down again at her desk to find the right forms on her computer. Then she gave herself a bit of a rueful sigh: _silly. You’re a middle-aged librarian who spends her weekends alone with a bottle of wine and Sherlock on Netfix. Stop trying to flirt with the patrons._

*****

Mr. Loren Lofgren had arrived at the library a couple of days earlier. He said he was a historian and explained which collection he needed access to — a bequest full of diaries, letters, and maps that had been made a few years ago by an eccentric Danish immigrant (Meena’s great uncle, in fact). He said that he had rented an apartment in town and would need a month or two to trawl through the collection, and that he had a grant from the Danish government to fund his work. Why anyone would want to go through Uncle Ole’s old junk, she had no idea. Perhaps the Danish government was interested in documenting the lives of those who had chosen to leave the homeland, but Ole was hardly typical — in fact he had been downright odd. But it might be interesting to see what Mr. Lofgren could come up with.

He had all of the requisite papers — proof of university affiliation, letters of introduction — so Meena processed his application to use the archives, and gave him a tour of the facility. Since he had a grant, he had enough money to rent out a little cubicle on the upper floor. These were mostly reserved for faculty and a few lucky grad students, but she had two rooms that no one had claimed for the semester, so she gave him a key to one of those. “You can have a bit of peace while you work, anyhow, and you’ll be able to lock a few things up at night, so we don’t have to re-shelve everything every day. It will save all of us a lot of hassle.”

She smiled at him as she spoke, but she actually tried her best to avoid looking at him much. The view was very distracting — tall, lean, dark hair, the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Every time she looked for too long she lost her train of thought and had to look away to re-gain her focus. It didn’t help, either, that he was well dressed — button-down shirt, jeans, and a jacket. Not too many guys out here usually put forth much effort, not unless they were somebody’s boss. _Not professional, Meena! Stop ogling!_

He was scrupulously polite, if a bit distant, but he also appeared to be aware of the effect he was having on her — which added to her discomfort. Every so often she caught the slightest tweak of a smile out of the corner of her eye.

She cleared her throat slightly, “The stacks of the archive are closed, so you’ll have to search the on-line catalog, fill out a request form, and leave it at the reference desk. One of the workstudy will go get the materials and bring them up to you.”

“Can’t I just ask you?

The question puzzled her, and she looked up at him quizzically, “Why?”

“Well, I’ve met you, and I know you’ll get it right the first time. Why would I want to ask a student?”

She shrugged, “I suppose you could ask me. I don’t mind, but I won’t always be available.”

“That’s ok,” he said with a disconcerting smile, “I can wait.”

****

After the first day, however, she actually saw very little of him. He asked her to pull a few boxes of Ole’s journals, and then disappeared into his cubicle — only emerging when the evening clerk knocked on his door to let him know they were closing up. So now, two days later, she had pretty well dismissed the flirtation as imaginary. After rescuing him from Marilyn, and getting through her requisitions, she bundled up to get something warm and caffeinated from the coffeeshop without giving him a second thought.

When she returned to her office, she tossed her ID and keys on her desk and turned to the computer table to wade through her e-mail, talking to herself as she deleted things: “junk. junk. junk. old news. junk. I don’t care. You bother me. . . .”

Tap tap tap.

“Yes?”

She looked up from the screen and blushed. There was her handsome stranger leaning on the door frame with a smile and a raised eyebrow.”Does it ever answer back?”

She snorted at herself, “Fortunately not yet — that conversation could get pretty ugly.” His smile broadened. “Did you need something?” She asked.

Meena immediately regretted the choice of words, blushing at the tiny twitch at the edge of his smile. Fortunately, he took the high road, and sidestepped the double entendre, “I found another citation I need from the stacks,” he moved from the doorway to her desk, holding out a post-it note to her.

“Oh sure. Do you want to wait here, or do you want me to bring it up to your cubicle?” She stood up and gestured to the corner of her office, “you’re more than welcome to hang out in the comfy chair while I dig through the stacks.”

“Thank you, I might take you up on that offer.” She reached out to take the note and her fingers brushed his in the process.

“Ahh!” He winced in surprise and jerked his hand away.

“Oh I’m so sorry, did I shock you? It’s this damn new carpet they installed over the summer. Some days I feel like I need to attach a grounding wire to my shoes.” She smiled apologetically and his mouth returned the expression, but his eyes shifted to something more thoughtful, and as they followed her out the door they narrowed shrewdly.

 _That was not static electricity,_ he declared to himself. His eyes darted around her office searching for anything that might explain what he had felt — something he believed impossible to encounter here in such a mundane place, so far away from its origins. _That was magic — and she is completely oblivious to it._

Before too long his eyes flicked down to her desk, and lighted on her ID card, which spelled out her full name: Vilhelmina Friggas Mahler. That was too much of a coincidence: “ _Fierce protector, belonging to Frigga.”_ _“Mahler” — that’s patronymic; that’s irrelevant, but the rest . . ._

He looked up quickly when she returned with his request — a box full of uncatalogued letters. “If you want,” she said as she sat the box on her desk, “you can just take the box upstairs and I’ll bring the paperwork up in a bit so you can sign it. You do have gloves, don’t you?” She looked up at him, but as she turned to face him she was stopped short by the intensity of his gaze; it was as though he hadn’t really seen her before and was just now taking note of who she was, and what she looked like. She cleared her throat uncomfortably and slid her hands into the pockets of her skirt.

He blinked, and then re-oriented himself, before reaching for the box, “That would be more than acceptable, yes. And I do have my own gloves,” he pulled a pair of vinyl gloves out of his jacket pocket as proof.

“Excellent,” she replied, reminding herself to breathe, and feeling a bit like a mayfly pinned under a magnifying glass. “I’ll just go get the forms, then.”

She ducked out of her office as quickly as possible to retrieve the forms from the reference desk. As she made her way up to his workspace, however, she slowed her pace a good deal. _That was very strange_. She used the time to compose herself and re-professionalize. By the time she arrived at his door, she had managed to put her Librarian Armor back on, and was able to act disaffectedly.

He, too, had re-composed himself, recognizing that he had put her on her guard — this was not necessarily what he wanted. He could wait. After all, he still had weeks worth of reading to do. Just to test his theory, however, he made sure their hands met when he returned the paperwork, steeling himself to suppress any physical reaction to her touch.

“Ouch!” It was her turn to flinch, as she jerked back her hand and almost dropped the clipboard.

“So sorry,” he apologized, affecting concern. “It must be the dry air.”

She shook out her hand to get rid of the tingling in her fingers, “that was a big one,” and she suppressed a nervous laugh as she left the room and closed the door.

He stared at the door with a childish grin on his face, then looked down at his own hand, running his thumb over the fingertips at the tingling of magic that lingered there. _Oh yes,_ he thought to himself gleefully, _I can wait; I am the God of Mischief, after all, and was raised by Frigga, Patroness of the Volva._


	2. It's Just What I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm . . . snickerdoodles.

 

> _AU Library — Olsen Collection, Box 1, item #00-003_
> 
> _[Translated from Danish]_
> 
> _[July 8, 1908_
> 
> _Dearest Meena,_
> 
> _I was so happy to hear from you. So glad that Ole has found a farm and that the weather has been fine. We are all good here. Lisabet will get married next week. They will live with her husband’s family. His prospects are very good. He is apprenticed to the local doctor there, and hopes to enter into a partnership with him after a few years time. Stina misses you very much. The baby is due any day now. I will sit with her for the laying in. She is healthy, and I do not expect any problems. I think she will be the last girl I sit with, since I sent the necklace with you. I do not feel so sure of myself without it._
> 
> _Love to you all,_
> 
> _Mamma]_

*****

Work was utterly uneventful over the next week, though the weather continued colder than normal. Meena began to feel a bit sorry for her guest, as it didn’t seem as though he had brought a real winter coat with him — he always showed up to the library with a suit or sport jacket (and really nice shoes — she loved his shoes), but never an overcoat. So that weekend she went to the local knitter’s addiction — a cute little yarn shop called The Little Lamb that Could — and found some soft yarn in black and green to knit him a warm scarf.

This is what she did for people — almost by compulsion. She wanted to keep people warm, maybe because she was almost never warm herself. Reynaud’s Syndrome meant that every time she had to sit in a room cooler than 70 degrees F, the capillaries in her fingers and toes started to close up. She even had a pair of mitts with little heaters in them that she could plug into her computer at work. By Sunday night she finished the scarf. She pulled together a batch of snickerdoodles, as well. Habit, again. The workstudy students had put in extra hours to clean up after finals were over last month, so she wanted to give them a treat.

When Meena arrived at work she brought a cloud of cinnamon with her, and everyone seemed to perk up as she passed on her way to the break room.

“Snickerdoodles!” She practically sang with an enormously satisfied smile on her face.

“Aww yessss!” Came the echo, as the students trailed behind her like the children following the Pied Piper out of Hamlin.

“Save some for the afternoon shift, guys”

“Aww man! We should get extra because have to get up early.”

Meena snorted, “there’s lots, guys, leave some leftovers,” and she made her way back to her office, still leaving a cloud of cinnamon behind her as she walked.

Somewhere around 9:00 she noticed Mr. Lofgren walk by on his way upstairs — he nodded and smiled as he passed her open door. _How can he not be cold?_ She thought, just like she did every day. She waited a bit until she figured he was settled in, then gathered the scarf along with a bag of cookies she had set aside for him, and went upstairs.

She poked her head through the open door as she knocked, “good morning.”

“And to you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, slightly suspicious, but still smiling.

 _Oh god, he’s handsome —_ also something she said to herself every day. She blinked twice to get her thoughts back together before the gleam came back into her face and she held out the little bag of cookies: “I made cookies this weekend and thought you might like some,” she set the little zip lock down on his worktable, and she noticed him inhale deeply.

“Mmmmm . . . Cinnamon,” he observed in a decidedly sinful tone of voice, closing his eyes briefly, “thank you, you smell heavenly.”

She almost blushed at the mis-statement (at least she thought it was a mis-statement), but then re-focused herself once more, “I also noticed that you don’t seem to have a winter coat.”

“I never really get cold . . .” He half turned around to shift a pile of papers to the other side of the table.

“Well, I get cold just looking at you walk out in this weather, so I made a scarf for you — I just can’t imagine you’re not just a tiny bit cold — it’s in the single digits!”

His eyes widened is surprise, “thank you so much — that’s very generous. You certainly didn’t have to do that.” He kept the stack of papers in his hands and added, “could you just set it on the table next to the cookies? It’s very handsome — I don’t know how I’ll repay you.”

“No no, it’s just what I do — I hate being cold myself, so I can’t stand thinking that someone else might be cold. I give them away all the time. Some of my friends have whole drawers full of them. I promise I will not be offended if you choose to not wear it — not everyone likes scarves.” She smiled as she set it on the table.

“Well, thank you very much.”

He looked almost as though he had something else to say, so she waited a bit, but he didn’t speak, just looked at her. Before too long she started to get a little knot in her stomach, and she decided to might be time to retreat. She broke his gaze, “ok, then,” she added a little nervously, “there are more cookies in the break room if you’re interested, though don’t wait too long, the students will probably make short work of them.” She smiled again, and he returned it. “Let me know if you need anything from the stacks,” she concluded and made a swift exit.

“I certainly will,” he answered, though mostly to himself. He smiled like the Cheshire cat as he carefully closed the door behind her and clicked the lock into place. Then he turned around and examined her gifts.

The scarf did look gorgeous, but he still hesitated to touch it. Weaving was a powerful magic — as was kitchen magic — and if she was what he thought she was, well, it just paid to be cautious.

He reached out gingerly toward her gifts and floated the palm of his hand a few inches above the scarf, trying to sense what potential energy might be stored there.

He felt warmth.

Gentleness.

Almost a mother’s caress.

He exhaled — _that’s impressive, very subtle._

Feeling a bit safer, he picked it up — no tingling of the sort he felt when he touched her fingers, but again he sensed a gentle warmth that traveled up his arm and began to wash over him, to comfort him.

_So soft._

He lifted it to his face and breathed in the smell of cinnamon. It lifted his mood, actually made him feel just a tiny bit warmer, but not uncomfortably so. Somehow she had woven her wishes for him into the scarf — she wished him warm, wished him comfort — he felt his eyes grow soft and just a little damp at the pull of that sentiment. It was almost overwhelming.

 _“It’s just what I do”_ — her words came back to him. _She really has no idea what she is, what gift her foremothers have bestowed on her. Oh but I know. Mother would know._

He closed his eyes and drew the fabric even closer to feel the softness on his cheek, inhaling her scent once more, until his breath hitched, and his eyes suddenly opened — another sort of warmth had been woven into those fibers, hidden deep within the weave, another sort of desire.

He closed his eyes again and smiled.

_I absolutely must get her to cook for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, here's a link to Meena's recipe for snickerdoodles: http://writernotwaiting.tumblr.com/post/107556111164/the-ties-that-bind-snickerdoodles


	3. Angling for an Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever Loki wants, Loki gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: References to past abuse.

 

> _AU Library — Olsen Collection, Box 7, Item #00-382_
> 
> _Ole Olsen’s Diary_
> 
> _Aug. 20, 1974_
> 
> _Well, Vita’s gone and done it now. She went and got herself knocked up by that hot head Lars. Wilma and Anders marched the two of them down to the courthouse and watched them get married. I guess Wilma’s finally going to get her grandkids, though I don’t suppose this is the way she wanted them._

_. . . . . . . . ._

 

> _AU Library — Olsen Collection, Box 7, Item #00-383_
> 
> _Ole Olsen’s Diary_
> 
> _Feb. 14, 1975_
> 
> _Blessings and curses both came home today. Vita’s gone. The fall off the porch did something and the baby started to come early. Lars’ old junker wouldn’t start in the cold so they couldn’t get to the hospital. The EMTs finally came and they saved the baby, but Vita was bleeding too bad. Pastor Thorsen came and prayed, but it didn’t do no good. Wilma said he should have called her instead of the pastor, but Lars was raised a good Lutheran boy. He tried to argue about the name, too, but that’s a fight he lost before he’d even so much as looked at Vita sideways. So we have another Vilhelmina to deal with. Lord help us all. She’s a cute little thing though, god bless her. I just hope her poppa can straighten himself out._

*****

“Shit!” Meena juggled the grocery bags as she bent down to pick up her keys out of the snow. The bread slipped precariously close to the edge before she caught it with her chin. Then she reached out carefully with her right forearm while trying to keep the other bag wedged next to her body with her bicep.

Just as everything started to topple, a black glove reached down to pick her keys out of the snow, while strong fingers steadied her arm and helped her stand upright again.

“Oh, Mr. Lofgren — thank you!”

He unlocked the lobby door and gestured her in, “May I carry those for you?”

“Oh no, you don’t have to . . .” but he had already taken them and was handing back her keys. “Oh you really don’t have to. I can get them — I do it all the time.”

“No no, I insist, and please, call me Loren.” He waved at her to lead the way.

This embarrassed her. She had ever quite mastered the art of accepting help graciously. She had always been a tomboy and prided herself in doing things for herself. She walked uncomfortably ahead of him up the stairs, doubly self-conscious because she couldn’t see what he was looking at. She turned off the staircase at the second floor and down to her door, trying awkwardly to make small talk — another skill she had never mastered.

“What are you doing in the neighborhood? I thought you had a place near the university.”

“It didn’t suit me.” He replied. “Shoddy construction. Loud neighbors. I’ve actually taken a place here — much nicer. Quieter neighborhood, a building with a bit of character, much pleasanter neighbors.” He flashed her that devastating smile as she turned to unlock her door. When she looked up, Meena quite forgot what she was doing for a minute, especially as his charm slowly morphed into amusement.

She snorted at herself and blushed. She looked intently at her keys as she smashed one into the lock before her hands started to betray her nerves.

Once she got the door open, she turned to take the bags from him, but was left empty-handed as he smoothly side-stepped her and carried them inside — “Where can I put these?”

She flushed again, and followed him in, “you can just set them on the kitchen counter — I’ll deal with them later.”

He did so, but as she took off her gloves, snow boots, and coat, he made no move to leave. He just took a few steps, swept his eyes around her apartment, pivoted and looked around a bit more, before his gaze came to rest on her.

His ease contributed to her dis-ease, and she tried to cover it with chatter, “I had no idea you had moved — when was this?”

“Just this morning, actually,” he fished his own keys out of his pocket to show her, “I’m just down the hall,” and he stepped over to her to show her the number — it was, in fact, right next door.

“Ah, so we really are neighbors — I’ll have to have you over some time,” a declaration that she immediately followed by a swift mental kick to her own pants — _shut up! Every time you open your mouth you sound more pathetic._

“I would like that very much,” and he once more gifted her with that disarming smile. “I’m not much of a cook myself, and was hoping to angle an invitation somehow. Those cookies were unforgettable.”

She mentally swatted at the butterflies that suddenly stirred up in her stomach. “Well, I don’t think I have anything suitable for company today, but tomorrow’s Saturday, maybe I could put together something decent then?

“You don’t have plans?”

She snorted, “I’m an educated woman in a small town — that’s a species that just doesn’t get many dates — certainly no call backs.”

He raised an eyebrow at that before he said with a sly look, “Well, I would be delighted,” and then he took her hand in his gloved one, raised it and offered an exaggerated bow.

She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in response, “excellent! You can be my knight in shining armor for the evening,” she was joking, but she still blushed a deep red — no one treated her like that.

“I would be charmed,” and he raised his eyes back up to hers.

*****

Meena spent the rest of the evening trawling through cookbooks and talking to herself:

“Chicken parmesan — no too garlicky.”

“Chicken piccata — too girly.”

“Chicken soup — too much like I’m trying to be his mom.”

“Try a different chapter — ribs — no. waaay to messy.”

“Burgers — not special enough.”

“Polish sausage and noodles — too heavy.”

“Meatloaf — too boring.”

“Beef stew — that might work.”

“Warm, so good for the winter. Simple, but still out of the ordinary; I can dress it up with homemade bread. That means it’s just enough work that it’ll seem special without making it look like I’m trying too hard. It involves beef, so it’s kind of manly. It also doesn’t make a mess when you eat it, so it’s good date food.”

“Date food.”

“It’s not a date.”

Her shoulders sagged a little bit as she reminded herself of that. “It’s not a date. It’s just me doing something nice for the out-of-towner next door. Someone like _me_ does not date someone like _that_. He’s gorgeous. And I’m . . . I’m Brunhilde — stick a helmet on my head, and I’m a Valkyrie. Guys like him only date cute little petite girls, not 5’11” bruisers who played hockey in college.” And that was the heart of the problem, as far as Meena was concerned. She was good looking — she turned heads, no doubt. But she was tall, sturdy, well-educated, and carried herself like a gal who knew how to cross check if her date got out of line. It didn’t matter about all of those soft spots underneath the armor. Nobody ever saw those.

“So — beef stew it is.” She pondered the menu a bit more, “probably a bottle of red wine, but you should go easy on that; remember how it turns your teeth purple.”

“Aaaaannnd what about dessert?”

She flipped through a few more pages — “Mmmmmm chocolate fondue, that’s sounds lovely” Then she scrunched up her nose, “No no no — maybe if this were a third date. But a dinner for your neighbor? Forget it —no finger foods.”

“Ooo chocolate pots de creme, those are delicious!” She read through the recipe, “Crap, no those are no good, either — I’ll end up with 12 pots left over after he goes home. How do you cook for two? I can cook for one person or for 12, not for two. Maybe I can find something on-line.”

She pulled up her laptop and googled “desserts for two” — “ooo lookit — an entire website, [www.dessertsfortwo.com](http://www.dessertsfortwo.com) — excellent! Let’s see:”

“Chocolate chocolate chip cookies . . . Chocolate croissants . . . Coffee cake . . . Guiltless banana ice cream — ‘ _guiltless_ banana ice cream’? What’s the point? It’s dessert for god’s sake! Chocolate-peppermint mousse — I like the sound of that.”

She made a grocery list, then went to run some bath water. _Hot water with lots and lots of bubbles — that’s exactly what I need right now — in lavender. I need to calm down_. She stripped and sank verrrrrry slowly into the steaming water to parboil herself for a bit.

_Not a date. Not a date. Not a date._

She leaned back and rested her head on the tiles behind her. _Oooo, but what if it was?_ She closed her eyes, calling up his blue blue eyes, and flawless smile. She remembered the little static shock when she brushed against his hand a few days ago. She’d flinched, but really just because she was surprised, not because it really hurt. It had kind of _tingled_. She pulled her hand out of the mountain of bubbles to look at her fingertips, running her thumb across them. It hadn’t really felt like static at all. _What if he touched my neck? Would that tingle, too?_ And her hand strayed to imitate her thoughts. _Or if he kissed me?_ She bit her lip and let her hand drift back under the bubbles to brush over her breast, squeeze it just a little, pinch her nipple, then move down a little farther to tease herself as she imagined the denim of his jeans rubbing against her bare thigh. Her fingers began circling her clit, then she moved them into and around all of those most sensitive of places. It didn’t take long at all before she pushed against the tub with her feet, wedging herself in and sucking the air through her teeth in an effort to suppress the moans as she came.

After a few deep breaths she blew the air out of her lungs and ran her nails through her hair as she submerged herself fully under the water. _How the hell am I going to survive the next few weeks before he finally goes home?_

*****

Originally, Loki had planned to take Saturday morning off, settle himself into the new apartment, read a good book. But now he thought he might go back to the library, after all. He was pretty certain, now, that he knew exactly who the “little Vilhemena” was, and wanted to find out as much about her as possible before he sat down to supper with her. So he trudged through the snow to the library (it was tedious to work in disguise, but there your are), walked silently through the virtually empty Saturday morning reference section, and past the main offices.

He had almost made it to the stairs when he heard sobbing — right from Meena’s office. He pivoted quickly and stood among the shelves just beside her door which hung slightly ajar.

“Oh Lyndsey” There was Meena’s voice, comforting someone. “— you’ll be ok — did he hurt you? I swear, if he hit you . . .”

“No! He’s not that bad Ms. Mahler — Jake would never hit me.” It must have been one of the students.

“Promise me that you’ll call me if he ever does this again. Promise! I don’t care if it’s 2 in the morning — call me and I will come get you.” There was some prolonged sniffling.

“I couldn’t do that.” Lyndsey’s voice seemed very small.

“Yes, you could.” Meena was insistent — intent on extracting this promise. “Please say you will. No one has the right to treat you that way. No one!” Sniffle. A Kleenex came out of the box and someone blew her nose.

“If he ever hits you, I swear to god I will pull his balls out through his mouth and strangle him with his own testicles.”

There was a feeble laugh. “I bet you would.”

“You know I would, and you can tell him I said so. No man-child is worth this, Lyndsey.”

“You don’t understand . . .”

“Yes, I do, sweetheart. I understand perfectly. Here is what I want you to do . . .” The door to the office thunked closed, cutting off the conversation.

Loki made his way across the lobby, shaking his head and smiling in silent admiration _Oh Meena, fierce protector, indeed. You definitely live up to your name._ He climbed the stairs to his little workspace, and picked up reading almost where he’d left off the day before:

 

> _AU Library — Olsen Collection, Box 7, Item #00-392_
> 
> _Ole Olsen’s Diary_
> 
> _March 2, 1984_
> 
> _Wilma’s finally done it, and I’m only surprised it took her this long — little Meena showed up on her back porch with bruises one too many times and Wilma told Anders she was going to keep her this time. Anders knows better than to argue when she’s like this. God help them when Lars sobers up, though._

_…………….._

 

> _March 4, 1984_
> 
> _Like we thought, Lars was pretty angry when he woke up and couldn’t find Meena. He phoned Stina right away and called her all kinds of things a good Lutheran boy shouldn’t say. Stina didn’t say nothing, but Lars guessed where Meena went. He showed up at Wilma’s place with a rifle. Shot the tires out of Anders’ good truck. Good thing he’s a bad shot or he would have killed Charlie, too. Poor dog’s been hiding under the porch all day. Neighbors called the cops. I don’t know what Wilma’s going to do when they let him out._

_………………_

 

> _March 11, 1984_
> 
> _Lars is out on bail. Anders put new locks on the doors. Meena hasn’t come downstairs for 2 days and leaves her lights off. Wilma wore the necklace to church today — I wonder she don’t get struck by lightning when she does that._

_………………_

 

> _March 16, 1984_
> 
> _Lars wrecked his car. The police say he’d been drinking. Funeral’s on Sunday._

These last entries brought Loki up short. _On Friday — Freya’s Day. That car wreck wasn’t an accident. And_ _Ole knew, or at least suspected. Wilma sounds like a woman to be reckoned with, and I’ll bet her grand-daughter is just like her. Where is that damn necklace?_

Such were Loki’s ruminations as he walked back to his apartment in the early afternoon, and such were his thoughts as he lay on his couch inhaling the enticing smells that wafted down the hall from his neighbor’s kitchen. He was, on the whole, feeling fairly pleased with himself, having put a few of the clues together, and gotten lucky enough to stumble on exactly the person he probably needed to find. Double bonus that she was smart, gorgeous, and sexually frustrated. _And she’s got The Gift._ If he played the game perfectly, he would not only get the artifact, but also obtain a channel for its power. _And if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to keep her afterward. I would like that._ Maybe a little more than he wanted to admit just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A recipe for Meena's beef stew can be found here: http://writernotwaiting.tumblr.com/post/109073607054/meenas-beef-stew  
> For her bread, here: http://writernotwaiting.tumblr.com/post/109073806584/meenas-foccachia-bread  
> For the mousse, here: http://writernotwaiting.tumblr.com/post/109073982289/meenas-peppermint-chocolate-mousse


	4. Kitchen Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would have thought beef stew could be a sensual experience?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: allusions to past abuse

Who would have thought beef stew could be a sensual experience?

Well, Loki did, but not because there was anything inherently sexy about stew. The heat came from the cook, and his expectations were more than thoroughly met. Every fantasy, every longing sigh, every salacious thought she lingered over as she cooked — all of these became part of the repast. And so every bite, every morsel, every stray bit of gravy he licked from his lips was as though he were tasting her. Each spoonful was an agonizingly savory foreplay.

Meena, in turn, was thoroughly flustered by the end of the meal, despite the fact that she’d only had one glass of wine. She talked about the weather. He talked about places he had traveled. They talked glancingly about his research, and she confirmed that Ole had been her grandmother’s brother. But every time he took a bite his eyes fixed on hers, and the low, approving noises he made as he ate were thoroughly distracting — his voice was like molten chocolate. She was almost afraid to stand up for fear there would be a wet spot on the seat of her pants. By the end of the meal, she felt thoroughly debauched, and he hadn’t even touched her.

Loki could not remember when he had enjoyed a meal so much — god of mischief, indeed.

“Would you like another dish?” She almost didn’t want to ask.

“No, thank you,” came his satisfied response, and then another one of those smiles, “but if I could take some home with me, I would be eternally grateful.”

“Sure — I was just going to freeze the rest, anyway.” She stood to clear the table and escape for a bit into the kitchen, trying desperately to sound rational. “Would you like some coffee or tea?” She called back at him, looking for an excuse to stay in the other room for a bit and recover.

“Some black tea would be perfect, thank you.” He leaned back in his chair — oh so smug.

She managed to regain a modicum of composure when she returned to the table, and since Loki had had his bit of fun for now, he decided to get down to business, “So, Ole was your uncle, have you never gone through the records yourself?”

“Oh I’ve been meaning to, but there always seems to be something else to do.” She shrugged. “He was always a bit odd, and we were never all that close, so it’s never seemed much of a priority.”

“Do you know what’s in them?”

“No, not really. Maps and old letters, aren’t they? I’ve seen a few of the older ones from relatives back in Denmark, but I don’t speak Danish, so I couldn’t do anything with those.”

“Many of the boxes have journals, some fairly detailed; in fact there are many entries about you and Wilma that seem fairly personal.”

“Ah.” She hesitated a bit. “From when?” And she raised her eyebrow.

“The entries from the 1980s might be something you would hesitate to include in a public collection.”

“Hmm, well, yes. I hadn’t really thought there would be anything about that, but I suppose it’s too late to pull the records at this point.” She screwed up the side of her mouth. “That’s not a time of my life that I usually go out of my way to discuss, though I’m not afraid of it as a topic of conversation, anymore.” She shrugged. “My father was not a healthy person, mentally. He drank. And he was an angry drunk. I am very lucky that Wilma and Anders were willing to take me in when he died. Grandma was very protective and Grandpa very kind.”

His face turned dark, “I don’t think I would be quite so forgiving were I in your place.”

She smiled humorlessly and shrugged with a mid-westerner’s stoic instinct, “well, it didn’t happen quickly, I can tell you that. I was a very angry person for a very long time. All I can say is to repeat how lucky I was to have Wilma — and Anders. I could easily have grown up full of hate and fear. They showed me that not all men are like that, and that not all marriages are abusive. I’ve also learned how to protect myself — there aren’t very many men who _could_ hurt me, at least not do it twice.” The glitter in her eyes reinforced that confidence. “I keep a good kitchen, like a good girl, but I can stand up for myself if I have to. No one will ever treat me the way he did my mother.”

“And you,” he added, poking the bear to see what she would do.

Her face locked up when he said that, and her eyes glittered with anger as her jaw clenched.

He nodded his head, noting clinically, “so not entirely forgiven, at that.”

Her face became just a bit dangerous, “I don’t miss him, if that’s what you mean.”

He just nodded once more, and there was a bit of a pause in the conversation before Loki started up again, “there were a few interesting remarks in the journals.”

“Oh?”

“Your uncle seemed to think there was something, ummm, special about Wilma — something different. Did you ever notice anything?”

“She was just my grandmother. She defined my normal — how would I know if something was different?” though there was something in her tone that sounded a bit evasive.

He thought for a bit as to how, exactly, to approach the topic. “Did you ever notice that she was able to do things that others might not? Or that she was almost uncannily good at certain things — like gardening, or home healing remedies?”

She scrunched her eyebrows together suspiciously, “I’m really not sure I follow you.”

“Ok — let me try a different approach. Do you remember the other day, when our hands touched? The little shock?”

She shrugged a little hesitantly, warily. “Yes. What of it?”

“That didn’t exactly feel like static, did it?”

“No, not really.”

“Hold out your hand.”

She hesitated, then slowly reached out with her palm up, tense and ready to jerk back as he began to raise his own.

“It won’t hurt,” he teased. She looked at him dubiously. “Did it hurt last time?” he asked with a raised brow.

“No.” Now her voice became defensive.

“Just hold your hand still for a minute.” He reached out his hand and hovered over hers, palm down. As he moved it closer, the palm of her hand began to tickle slightly. Her fingers twitched and the edges of her mouth twitch upwards — it was hard to not pull away. He smirked a bit at her reaction, a gleam in his eye, then closed the remaining distance to rest his palm on hers. She gasped at the shiver that went through her. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She looked at their hands then up at his face and back to their hands then up to his face once more — her eyes wide. The rest of her was completely frozen in shock.

“What is that?”

“That, my dear,” as he shifted to hold her hand with both of his own, “is magic.”

Her brow constricted in suspicion, “nooooooooo — this is the 21st century, there is no magic,” and she tried to pull her hand back from his.

He held on — gently — but certainly refusing to let go. “I am entirely serious.”

“I can’t believe that. Why, then, would it make any difference that I’m touching you. This has never happened before, not with anyone.”

“Because I am not just anyone.”

She looked at him like he was just a little bit daft, but he ignored that and began an interrogation: “Have you never wondered why you gravitated toward the hobbies that you did?”

“What, you mean hockey?” she snarked.

He rolled his eyes, “No — that was out of self defense.”

“I beg your pardon?” He plowed overtop her surprise at his spot-on observation.

“I mean knitting and cooking.”

“I don’t know — I just like them — Grandma taught me.”

“Exactly. What else did your grandmother teach you?”

“Ha! Grandma was a veritable font of wisdom! She had a proverb for every occasion.”

“Yes? Such as?”

She was too flustered now to think of any immediately, so he tried a different avenue. “Was she superstitious?”

“Not exactly superstitious, no. She went to church every Sunday. She was a good Lutheran.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yes, well, nobody’s perfect. No little rituals, then, that she seemed to always have to do on certain occasions?”

She tugged again at her hand as she thought about the question, but he kept hold of her. “I suppose she was always very careful about how she kept her kitchen — everything was always clean, and she never, ever ran out of salt. If anyone got sick she would make a little warm salt water with rosemary and wash their face with it, then she’d make them gargle with it.” She screwed up her face remembering the taste. “And she had a ‘remedy’ for everything — dozens of them. I should have written them down.”

“She was a healer, then?”

“Well, I’m not sure I would call it that.”

He shrugged, “What about those proverbs, then — do you remember any of them?”

She thought for a minute. “Well, the saying I heard the most wasn’t really a proverb, as such. Whenever I got angry at someone, and talked about doing something nasty, she would always say that whatever I did would come back to visit me times three.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “She said it a lot — I’ve got my father’s temper.”

“And what about your father? How was it, exactly, that he died?”

Meena’s face suddenly turned to stone. “He got drunk and wrecked his car.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” came her very cold, very threatening reply.

Clearly he wasn’t going to get anywhere with that direction, though her defensiveness was telling. He switched tracks once again, certain he had gained ground. “What else? No other habits that she seemed particularly scrupulous about?”

“Well, she would throw sticks. That was always a bit odd.”

“Explain.”

“Whenever she had to make a big decision, she would go out and gather a bunch of little twigs and toss them. She said they would tell what to do.”

“So — prophecy.”

“No.” She pursed her lips tightly with the denial.

“What would you call it then?” His mouth still twitched with a tiny half smile as he pressed her.

She scrunched her mouth up with irritated frustration. “I don’t know.” He knew then that it was not that she didn’t believe him, but that she didn’t want to.

“That, my dear — all of it — is ‘kitchen magic’ and though it has been dismissed by many as unimportant, because it sounds domestic and familiar, kitchen magic is one of the most powerful forces in your world.”

She raised her eyebrows, “In my world? Isn’t it yours, too?”

“No, my dear, it is not.” He sat up a bit straighter, but still kept hold of her hand. “As I said before, I am not just anyone. I am not Loren; I am Loki, of Asgard. I was raised by Frigga, and she was the goddess of all so-called ‘kitchen magic.’ Patroness, especially, of your direct ancestors. That is why those students gravitate to you for help with their personal problems — I’ve seen them hanging around, and not just for the cookies, but for advice — for healing. That is why your grandmother could prophecy, and heal the sick. That is why your hand and mine tingle with potential energy when they meet.” He caressed the back of her hand as he said this, looking at her face intently.

She stood abruptly and tried to pull away in a bit of a panic. “Nononononononono, I refuse to believe that. You -he was taken back to . . . wherever that was . . . Why would he be here, in the middle of nowhere?” She started pulling, trying to get out of his grasp, trying to back away. “You’re delusional.”

He rolled his eyes again, but did not let go. “Didn’t you think I looked in any way familiar?”

“No! I don’t have a tv — I get my news from the radio. I have no idea what you — what he looks like — you can’t be him. You’re crazy!” She kept pulling, but it was like pulling on the arm of a stone monument. All her considerable strength made no impression whatsoever.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” his tone flat as he waited for her to stop.

It took a bit — she was pretty stubborn. “Sit down again, please.” And though the invitation was not graciously given, she sat, and he continued, “What proof would you need?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“How about this,” he passed his free hand over his empty wine glass and it now appeared full.

“No, any illusionist could do that,” her voice was firm.

“Ok,” another gesture and the glass duplicated itself.

“Better,” she said a little more quietly, and she furrowed her brow.

He rolled his eyes, “how about this,” and he passed his hand in front of himself, initiating a cascade of light that transformed into his full battle dress, minus only the helmet.

“That’s a bit more convincing,” she responded with an audible effort to control her voice and eyes wide.

He let out an exasperated breath. “Now, if I let go of your hand, what are you going to do?”

“Um, since running away screaming is probably not a viable option, perhaps I could just sit quietly with my hands folded in my lap?”

“That would be one option,” came his sarcastic reply.

“What would you suggest?” came the uncharacteristically meek query.

“I would very much like to sit with you on the couch and sample that no-doubt delicious dessert I saw lurking innocently in your refrigerator. Do you think we could try that?”

“I could try that.”

“Good. I am still curious about your grandmother — and you. Mostly about you.” The look on his face was not one easy to contradict.

When she brought out the custard cups of mousse, she found him looking at her bookshelves near the couch, battle armor replaced by his shirt and jeans. She gave him one of the cups and then took a seat at the farthest end of the couch, trying, though not succeeding, to make herself small. He did not take the hint, but placed himself right next to her, his leg brushing up against hers, sending a ticklish tingling from her thigh all the way up her spine. “Did Wilma never talk to you about your ancestors and their traditions?”

It really was not fair of him to ask questions like that while he deliberately scrambled both her sense of reality and her hormones — but then, he never was one to play fair. Meena cleared her throat a little nervously, “not much, no; she did say that the women in our family were traditionally healers and midwives. She said that’s why she wanted me to be a doctor.”

“And you did not agree?” He asked this, and then took an agonizingly slow bite of chocolate, sliding the spoon back out of his mouth, and licking the tip while his gaze moved between her eyes and her mouth.

“No,” Meena’s voice was barely audible, “I did not.”

“And why is that?” As he took another sensual taste of the dessert.

She had to look away before she could answer. “Mostly just because she told me to. We weren’t on the best of terms when I went to school.”

“I can sympathize with that.” But he recognized there was more to that story she wasn’t ready to offer. His smile just barely hovered on the edges of his mouth as he noticed she hadn’t eaten any of the mousse. He set aside his own dish on the coffee table, took the spoon from her hand, scooped a bite onto the very tip, and moved it toward her mouth, his eyes fixed on hers. Her mouth opened and he slid the spoon into her mouth just enough to let her taste the chocolate while making sure he left some on her lips that she had to lick off. A tiny rumble of approval emerged from his chest as he watched, “you are a superb cook, Meena.”

“Thank you,” she didn’t quite know where to look. This was one of the most surreal experiences she had ever had — how could she respond normally given the outrageous things he expected her to believe, and when the conversation was underpinned by such heat? She pulled one of the throw pillows into her lap and hugged it to her chest like armor. He moved closer and scooped up another bite of the mousse, this time taking her spoon into his own mouth, pulling it out even more slowly, and licking his lips. Her eyes were drawn back to his face, and her own lips parted as she watched, unconsciously wetting them in echo of his own movements, swallowing as he swallowed. Her logical brain was rapidly losing the battle with the emotional one.

He left the spoon in the dish, and scooped a dollop of chocolate with a finger. He raised it to her mouth and stopped just short of her lips in invitation. Her eyes flicked between his offer and his glacier blue eyes. Logic went down for the count as she leaned forward, locked her gaze with his and took his finger between her lips, licking and sucking at the sweetness, tasting the dark, sensuous chocolate, while the cool tingle of peppermint was intensified by the touch of his skin and the energy that sparked between them.

His voice became barely audible as he leaned closer, “doesn’t it taste divine?”

She nodded as he slowly slid his finger out of her mouth, and she brought her own fingers up to play across her own lips, feeling the tingle of energy that remained behind, before she moved them to his.

His eyes never left her face as she reached for him. He parted his mouth, and kissed the tips of her fingers before taking one between his lips, sucking on it, licking it. He closed his eyes briefly and hummed deep in his throat. She tasted like chocolate, and wine, and desire.

She started to move her face closer to his, but he got there first, pushing her backward with the force of his kiss, the dish shoved onto the coffee table as their embrace became a two-fisted affair — her hands tangling themselves in his long black hair, while one of his wrapped around the nape of her neck and the other began pulling at the hem of her shirt, searching out her skin while his mouth drank her in, sucking at her lips, moving to her neck, burying his face in her hair, inhaling her deeply as he worked off her shirt and bra.

Everywhere they touched tingled with energy, until she felt as though she were glowing with life — every cell alight with pleasure.

The feel of skin on skin was intoxicating. Her fingers moved quickly to unbutton his shirt so she could feel as much of him against her as possible. He closed his eyes and moaned ecstatically as she ran her hands over his bare chest leaving a trail of energy, a reaction she echoed as his mouth found her breast, and she arched her back to meet him.

“Oh, Meena, you are the stuff that legends are made of. Zeus’s Leda was nothing compared to you.”

He moved his hand down her waist to slide her slacks down off her hips. He moaned deeply as he slid his fingers into her wetness. Her hips bucked with his touch. She sang out in response to his moans, and he covered her mouth once more with his own, sucking in those delicious noises.

She moved her hands down his back, over his tight jeans, then to the button and zipper in front. He sucked in his breath as she slid her hand over his hardness, then pulled his jeans down over his hips.

Loki pulled his hands away from her aching sex just long enough to move himself up over her torso and position himself at her slick cunt. He drove himself into her fully, and she gasped at the suddenness of his entry. He braced himself on the arm of the couch behind her head, holding still for a long, aching moment before slowly pulling out and back in, punctuated by stuttering breaths. Meena let out a long singing sigh in time with his movements until his pace quickened, fueled by hours of teasing through supper and dessert — he’d brought it on himself. Oh but the result was so sweet, as she breathed out her pleasure in desperate sighs with each move of his hips into hers, until they intensified in volume and pitch as she reached the edge of her climax. She threw he head back and closed her eyes tight, “oh my god!” and he thrust one last time as he echoed her cry and called out his release.

He wrapped himself around her, their skin still electric with potential energy, burying his face in her neck, and breathing her in.

Meena let out another languid sigh, “Magic, hmmm? You might be able to convince me, eventually.”

He chuckled deep in his chest as he traced a line of kisses across her shoulder. “If you still have doubts, we could try again in the bedroom. Perhaps a change of venue might help me persuade you.”


	5. Cooking Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Monday evening; they had eaten supper in Meena’s apartment, but were now in Loki’s living room, sitting on the floor. She had agreed to sit with him in the evenings and let him try to teach her about “her gift” as he called it.

Thunk. Clink. Kathunk.

Meena’s eyes peeled themselves open to the sound of someone jangling through the silverware drawer and thunking the cupboard doors. “Mmmmmm . . .” She let out a quiet moan as she rolled out of bed and fumbled through the drawers for a loose t-shirt and soft, flannel pj bottoms before she padded out to the kitchen. She stood in the doorway for a bit to take in the view, _Ooofdah!_ _If I could wake up to this every morning it would be much easier to get out of bed. He is so fine._

Loki was rummaging around her kitchen in his jeans, chest bare — dumping leftover stew into a dish and warming it with a wave of his hands. “You know,” she said, “I have a microwave.”

He smiled indulgently, “this is much faster,” as he found a spoon to stir his breakfast and lifted the steaming bowl up so he could take a deep breath. “Mmmmmmm . . . It smells just like you.”

She snickered. “If you say so.” She walked over to the coffeemaker, then went to the sink to fill the pot.

“I know so. _It’s just what you do_.”

She gave him a puzzled look which he met with a sensual smirk as he took the spoon into his mouth. She rolled her eyes and turned back to her task.

“You really don’t know,” his voice tinged with some disbelief.

“Don’t know what?”

He set the bowl down and came up behind her, “that when you cook, when you create, you infuse it with your very essence.” He wrapped his arms around her, “I know exactly what you were thinking when you baked those cookies for your students, because your wishes for their well being and your gratitude were baked into each one.” His nose dragged along the side of her neck. “I know exactly what you were wishing for when you made that scarf for me, because every thread vibrates with those emotions,” he closed his eyes briefly remembering it, hugging her close, “it is suffused with that care. By the same token,” and here his hands slid up under her shirt, “I know exactly what you were thinking about when you made that meal yesterday, because all of that yearning is part of every molecule of that outstanding repast.”

Her breath started coming in stutters as his hands wandered across her skin, “Ohhhhhh, you turn my insides to jelly.”

His voice sank to a low vibration against the nape of her neck. “I could teach you how to control your gift, how to channel that energy.” One hand slid its way under her waistband, and a finger found the soft, wet flesh beneath.

“Hmmmmmm. I’m not sure how you expect me to do anything if you keep this up.” She leaned up against him and he felt the ripple of the muscles in her back tense against his chest as he slid his long fingers over her swollen flesh, and dipped inside, teasing, stroking, urging. He felt her legs go weak and wrapped his free arm around her waist, bracing her against him, while his fingers continued to tease and stroke. She threw her head back against his shoulder and arched her back as her moans got louder.

“Let go,” he purred in a bass voice, his lips right at her ear, sending a shiver all down her spine so that she tumbled over the edge with an exclamation.

He could be very convincing when he wanted to be.

*****

“The volva were wise women, prophets, and healers. Some lived an itinerant lifestyle, some married powerful nobility and remained with that household, protecting and advising. For the volva, the fundamental principle of their art is interconnectedness, and a successful practitioner will always ground herself before she begins. She needs to draw energy from things around her, rather than from herself. This is the greatest mistake a novice will make. She will get rushed or flustered and use energy from within herself. In invoking small spells, she will exhaust herself — if she is attempting something big, it can be dangerous, even fatal.”

It was Monday evening; they had eaten supper in Meena’s apartment, but were now in Loki’s living room, sitting on the floor. She had agreed to sit with him in the evenings and let him try to teach her about “her gift” as he called it. She was still skeptical, but then she couldn’t explain Him, or what he could do in any other way. She also began to remember things about her grandmother that didn’t make sense any other way — habits she had, things she had done, occasional things that had been said by her or by Anders — her father’s death.

As he began her first “lesson,” Loki was uncharacteristically serious after teasing her all weekend. “The greatest source of energy in women’s magic is the earth itself, and they are at their most powerful when in direct contact with it and drawing their energy from it. However, they can draw power from almost anything: water, air, or even another living thing — though Frigga frowned on that last one.” He indulged in a slight smirk as he said the last. “A volva is a channel for that energy, drawing it into herself and shaping it for her own purposes. A second-floor apartment is less than ideal for this sort of work, but it could be worse. This is, at least, an older building, so the floor is wood, and the foundation is stone. These will both allow you to make an indirect contact with the earth beneath. It becomes much more difficult when synthetic materials intervene.”

Meena nodded. It seemed to make sense intuitively, if not scientifically. So she waited for him to continue. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “And visualize the energy within you. Imagine it as a physical thing and then reach out with it. Picture it growing out of you like a system of roots searching for nourishment. Connect to the floor through it. Imagine it reaching down through the structure of the building into the foundation and then to the earth on which it rests. It all becomes connected to you — it is an extension to you, and you of it. Can you do all of this?”

She nodded, and then he quizzed her, “What can you feel as you do this?”

She did not answer right away, because it was difficult to describe. She felt both larger and smaller than herself. “I feel . . . more alive.” They were the only words that seemed even close to capturing it. She was more than herself.

He allowed himself a congratulatory smirk before he continued. “Now, imagine drawing energy from the earth, like a tap root pulls water from the soil.”

He focused on her face as her brow contracted with concentration, then shifted to surprise, shifting once again to what could only be described as euphoria. The little hairs on her arms began to stand up. She would have to dissipate the energy in some way or else she would get very grumpy later. “Don’t move, but open your eyes.”

She did so. He handed her a sad little potted violet, plagued by spots, and wilted. “Heal it.” She looked askance. “Picture the energy flowing from the earth through you and into the plant. It may help to imagine the energy to be a color you associate with health and healing. Some people imagine green to be a good healing color.” He again allowed himself a bit of a smirk at the irony.

Apparently she was a quick learner. She closed her eyes and imagined it just so — energy flowing up from the ground as a pulsing stream of green light, flowing through her body, out of her hands and over the little plant. Slowly the sad little plant began to perk up, it stood straighter on its stem. The spots faded from its leaves. A tiny bud formed at the end of a stem and opened into a rich purple blossom. Loki caught at her hands quickly before the pot dropped to the floor as she let go in surprise.

Meena’s mouth fell open as she watched, and her eyes grew wide, darting between the now revived plant and Loki’s face. His face, on the other hand, reflected unabashed glee. _Better than I ever expected!_ Was the first thought that popped into his head. _She will be glorious._ “Do you believe me, now?”

She couldn’t reply, even to nod. It was completely beyond her realm of experience, and would take some time to fully process.

*****

Many hours later, as they lay in the in her bedroom, Meena tried to wrap her brain around everything she had learned over the past few days. She pressed herself up close into the curve of him, while the air fairly crackled with their spent energy. Moving deliberately, she took his hand — the one poking out from under her pillow — and moved her own on top of it, leaving just millimeters between them. In dark, she could detect a faint glow in that empty space that accompanied the tickling of her palm, and she tried to analyze the sensations she felt. She held their hands stationary like that for a long, thoughtful moment before she addressed him.

"Loki."

"Hmmmmm?” He settled in more snugly behind her, tightening the arm around her waist.

"Why did she abandon us?"

"Hmm?"

"Frigga--why did she leave us? Things didn’t go so well for her wise women after she left. We became worse than nothing. Marginalized. Persecuted. We were healers and prophets, but became witches and heretics. Why did she let them do that?"

It took a bit for him to answer — it was simply not something he had ever considered, and if he were honest, it was not a question that probably ever occurred to Frigga, either. He weighed his words before he spoke.

“Before I was born, and even during my infancy, Asgard warred with the inhabitants of Jotenheim — the frost giants. The battles ranged across worlds and spilled into Midgard — your world. During these battles, Frigga took pity on humans — they had become just so much landscape that got trampled in battle. When she discovered some of your ancestors had The Gift she taught them how to use it in order that your lives would be in some measure less miserable. But when Asgard won, and the war ended, Asgardians stopped traveling to Midgard. It was through no malice, or because anyone had displeased her in any way.”

“I see. We were just no longer of interest.”

“Correct.”

Meena contemplated that for a bit — _we were a hobby, forgotten as soon as some other amusement presented itself_. It was a sobering thought, and certainly put things in perspective, _a timely reality check, perhaps, for my own situation._ “Will she ever come back?”

Loki again paused before he responded, but this time she sensed a shift in his mood. His body tensed, before he disentangled himself from her, and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“No. She will never come back” came the eventual, somber, reply.

She rolled over to face him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Why?”

He stood and walked out of the room, as he responded flatly, “Because she is dead.”

Meena rose and followed him into the living room, but he was already gone, leaving her with a sense of loss for something she could never have. More than that, though, she knew with absolute certainty that he still mourned deeply. _What would it take to repair that broken heart? That would be a magic worth learning._

*****

> _AU Library — Olsen Collection, Box 9, Item #00-501_
> 
> _Ole Olsen’s Diary_
> 
> _Feb. 14, 1994_
> 
> _Well there was a big row over at Wilma’s today when she said she was giving the necklace to Meena, instead of Stina’s girl, Lara. Stina said some pretty nasty things, and Lara just sat and cried. I don’t know what they expected — Vita was the oldest and Meena was her only daughter — it can’t go no other way. But Stina’s always been a bit selfish, and Lara’s always been a bit spoiled. Meena didn’t say nothing, but I guess Stina’s pretty lucky she left the house when she did. Meena’s got pretty protective of her granmamma since she came back from school. I never seen anybody shake like that from holding it in. If looks could kill, there wouldn’t even be enough of Stina left to clean off the floor._

*****

Loki never mentioned their late night conversation, and since Meena was a true-to-form stoic midwesterner, she never did, either. Neither was the touchy-feely type.

Correction.

There was plenty of touching, and a good deal of feeling (emotional and otherwise), but definitely no discussing. There might, however, have been an increased output of what one might call comfort foods issuing forth from Meena’s kitchen — sticky buns, grilled cheese and tomato soup, chicken noodle soup, apple crisp, lasagna (that was a big hit). And Loki might, occasionally, have excused himself from the table when he got something stuck in his eye, and might, more often than not, have absconded with the leftovers.

Despite the emotional behemoth in the room, however, Loki continued to push Meena to develop her skills. Loki insisted she practice under his supervision every evening after work, as well as every weekend. They practiced meditation techniques to aid her focus. He taught her how to direct her energies consciously, so that she no longer affected others accidentally — her emotions and influences were directed purposefully and with greater effect.

He would not leave her alone, and any time not spent in research was spent with her, until sometime at the start of March when he reached the end of Ole’s bequest. That very evening as they lay on the couch, he announced, “I have to go to Denmark for a few months. I want you to come with me.”

She gave him _that look_ — the one that implied he was insane: “For a week? Yes. For a few months? Not possible. I have a job, and I have bills.”

He nuzzled her neck, and lowered his voice by a fourth, “Take a leave of absence. Tell them you’re going to go research some documents that could be added to your uncle’s collection.”

She giggled and caught his face between her should and chin, “Did you miss the part about the bills? A leave of absence is unpaid. I can’t afford that.”

“I have a grant from the Danish government.”

“Which will not pay for a companion to go on vacation for months on end — that’s called fraud.”

“You would be a consultant. You are an archival researcher.”

“I can’t read Danish.” They both began to get irritated — clearly he had not expected any opposition, and she could not believe he was so dense.

He struck out at her verbally as he pulled away physically, “Now you’re just making excuses! Why do you not want to come?”

Her voice also became louder. “Because I’m not stupid! Loki, I’ve read Ovid. I know very well what happens when ordinary women get mixed up with immortals — or something very like them. It never ever ends well. I am perfectly aware that this,” and here she gestured between the two of them several times, “is temporary, and if I hang around you long enough, odds are that I end up dead or transformed into a tree. I am not going off to gallivant around the globe with you.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I do, and you certainly do, too, whether you will admit to it aloud or not.” He rumbled with displeasure, but she plowed right over him. “I get it. My life is a blink in your existence, and you will never take me seriously, not really. I am your pet human, something that you must not get overly attached to because you will have bury it in a few years. I am disposable.”

“Meena!” His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Don’t you _Meena_ me! In the time it took for you to grow to adolescence, dozens of my ancestors lived and died in a long progression. I will be dead before you are ready to turn the leaf over in your calendar. You cannot afford to get attached. I could pine over you for the rest of my life, but to you that’s no time at all. You will become distracted by something else before you even sit for lunch.”

Loki seethed for a few minutes, but couldn’t disagree with her basic premise. It was, after all, exactly what Frigga had done, and what he had done himself more times than he bothered to keep track of. After a brief pause while he pondered a shift in strategy, he began again. “If you won’t come with me, can I see ‘it’ before I go?”

Meena knew perfectly well what he meant, but she was still insulted by his earlier disingenuousness, so she pretended ignorance. “See what?”

His eyes narrowed to glacial slits, “You know exactly what I’m referring to: I want to see the necklace.”

The face that had been angry turned stoney: “No.”

“Just ‘no’? That’s it? After all I’ve done for you? Why not?”

“It’s all I have left of her. It’s my legacy, and I won’t let you have it.”

“I just want to see it.”

“But you want it, don’t you? How do I know you won’t just walk out with it?”

He hesitated for a long time before he mumbled a reluctant confession. “I can’t use it.”

She leaned closer, “What?”

His voice came a bit louder this time, “I can’t use it. It’s a woman’s tool.”

“Sorry?”

“Only a woman can use it. It’s tied to who you are as a Volga. It will not answer to me.”

Here her pause came from uncertainty rather than merely anger, “I thought . . . I mean . . . I had read that . . . well, something like that wouldn’t necessarily be an obstacle for you. The stories say that your gender is, um, occasionally, erm, fluid.”

He smirked, “yes, well, that doesn’t seem to make a difference in cases such as these.” He paused once more before insisting, “I just want to look at it. Touch it.”

His insistence roused an irrational possessiveness in her chest — she suddenly felt intensely protective — of it and her grandmother’s memory. “No.”

“This makes no sense! — Meena, you owe me.” His brow contracted with anger. “Do you feel no sense of obligation for everything I’ve done for you?”

Her voice rose to match his, “This has nothing to do with gratitude!”

He stood up from the couch and lowered over her, repeating, “You. Owe. Me.”

She rose to her own feet, as well, flashing him an intense glare as she growled at him, shouting as she poked him in the chest. “I don’t _owe_ you anything! You’ve done nothing for me that you didn’t think was going to further your goals. Don’t think I don’t know you want something — I have no idea what, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know, but you want something, and you think I can help you get it, or that Nana’s necklace will. Stop trying to bully me, or act all self-righteous.”

She backed away from him a few feet so he his height wasn’t quite the weapon he wanted it to be. “As much as I . . .” And here she stopped short, searching for a word to replace the one that wanted to come out, “as much as I . . . really like this,” and she again gestured between the two of them, “you still scare the bejeezus out of me, and I sure as hell don’t trust you.”

“Meena, I promise . . .”

Now here face flushed with her anger, “Promise what?! I know who you are — god of mischief, god of lies and misdirection, the trickster of the Norse pantheon. I am not going to abandon my life for you, and I will not jeopardize Wilma’s legacy for someone who will abandon _me_ with less than a moment’s notice.” And she turned a quarter turn away from him, standing rigid with anger.

He moved a long stride closer to her, “I could make you.”

Silence. She stared intently at the sideboard, and began shaking with anger.

“Meena — Answer me!”

Suddenly shards of glass exploded from the side of the room as one of the wineglasses on the sideboard shattered.

Loki looked at the now topless stem of the glass, then at Meena, taking in first her balled up fists, and then her clenched jaw. “When did you learn to do that?”

Without shifting her gaze, she raised her hand — “Just. Now,” she declared, and clenched her fingers tight once more as a second glass exploded in a shower of sparkles, her voice still full of a dangerous rage.

And a dangerous smirk spread over his face in answer, “I’ll bet your grandmother could never do that,” he declared, eyes still riveted on her face.

“I’ll bet that with some training and the right incentive she could have done much more,” and another glass shattered, as she finally turned her head back to face him, her expression still fiery with anger. “After all, she wiped my snot rag of a father off the face of the earth, didn’t she?”

Loki closed the remaining distance between them, grabbing her face with both hands and kissing her fiercely, all the while backing her up toward the bedroom. When he finally pulled away, his eyes locked on hers possessively, “I will come back for you at the end of summer, when the sun wanes at the start of December. I will come for you, and you will go with me, whether you want to, or not. You are _my_ Valkyrie, and I will not abandon you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some information can be found on the historical volva at Wikipedia (I know, there are better resources, but the summary there seems credible). Here is a short quote from one section of that article:
> 
> "In Viking society, a völva was an elderly woman who had released herself from the strong family bonds that normally surrounded women in the Old Norse clan society. She travelled the land, usually followed by a retinue of young people, and she was summoned in times of crisis. She had immense authority and she charged well for her services.[9]
> 
> In addition, many aristocratic Viking women wanted to serve Freyja and represent her in Midgård.[8] They married Viking warlords who had Odin as a role model, and they settled in great halls that were earthly representations of Valhalla.[8] In these halls there were magnificent feasts with ritualized meals, and the visiting chieftains can be likened with the einherjar, the fallen warriors who fought bravely and were served drinks by Valkyries.[8] However, the duties of the mistresses were not limited to serving mead to visiting guests, but they were also expected to take part in warfare by manipulating weaving tools magically when their spouses were out in battle.[8] Scholars no longer believe that these women waited passively at home, and there is evidence for their magic activities both in archaeological finds and in Old Norse sources, such as the Darraðarljóð.[8]
> 
> It is difficult to draw a line between the aristocratic lady and the wandering völva, but Old Norse sources present the völva as more professional and she went from estate to estate selling her spiritual services.[8] The völva had greater authority than the aristocratic lady, but both were ultimately dependent on the benevolence of the warlord that they served.[8] When they had been attached to a warlord, their authority depended on their personal competence and credibility.[8]"
> 
> For the sake of the story, I cheated and conflated Freya with the MCU Frigga. Sorry. Artistic license and all that.


	6. Calling Up Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He left just before the spring equinox, and by mid May, she still hadn’t heard from him. Not that she had really expected him to keep in touch — demi-gods, she was pretty sure, did not send letters via post, and she was fairly certain he had no phone."

The first few weeks of his absence weren’t all that difficult. It was the end of the term, and students crowded the library as they panicked through their final projects and exams. Graduate students cursed their existence (and their advisors) while testing how many hours, exactly, they could go without sleep before they succumbed to Red-Bull-induced hallucinations.

This is the time of year when Meena always switched into “momma mode” as she directed stressed out to the right resources, helped them find “nonexistent” resources, and fed them all banana bread and cookies. It did seem a little odd, though, that so many of the workstudy students managed to fall in love during the last few weeks of school. Three engagements at least had been announced by the time everyone cleared out for the summer. And while she knew that stress was a great catalyst for hook ups, Meena also suspected that something else was going on. She wanted to apologize every time someone else started flashing puppy eyes at a new flirtation, because she suspected that it was partially her own fault. Even as she tried to keep herself as busy as possible, every third thought drifted back to Loki, as she remembered a look or a touch or a word . A little haze of emotionally-charged energy drifted around her constantly, and stressed-out students, especially, absorbed it like so many sponges. Ah well, it seemed to work in their favor, anyway. Everyone’s grades seemed to be up, thanks to the extra oxytocin in the air.

Once the students went home, Meena found Loki’s absence much more difficult. He left just before the spring equinox, and by mid May, she still hadn’t heard from him. Not that she had really expected him to keep in touch — demi-gods, she was pretty sure, did not send letters via post, and she was fairly certain he had no phone. _Not that he would probably call, even if he did._ Her rational brain fought hard with the rest of her head to keep herself unattached — well, to get unattached, really. Loki was an addiction she had fallen into quickly, even though she knew how unwise that was.

She tried to gain distance by staying busy. She put in extra hours at work, volunteering to take on all sorts of mindless tasks, and her exercise routine suddenly became a good deal more extensive. She jogged every morning and started lifting weights until she ached. _If nothing else_ , she sighed to herself, _I am probably in the best shape I’ve been since my eligibility ran out._

Even as she tried to control her hormones by exhausting them, she also kept working to control her “gift,” as Loki called it. She practiced visualizing and meditation, but this was a struggle — sitting still had never been her strong suit, and her mind often drifted as she remembered the sound of his voice as her had talked her through the exercises, or the feel of his hands as he massaged her muscles after.

But this practice was as much about her Nana as it was about Loki. At night, she would lay awake and try to remember everything she once tried to forget about her grandmother’s odd little habits. _I miss her so much. How many times did I roll my eyes at her quirky little superstitions? Stupid! All of that knowledge lost._ She kept a notebook to jot down any little things she could remember — bits of recipes, proverbs, stories about family.

And the sticks. Merna’s thoughts drifted back to those over and over. Prophecy. _How did she do that exactly?_ There was no one to ask. She didn’t dare call her Aunt Stina — _it will be a very cold day in Hel before she speaks to me again._ So she did what any modern witch might do — turned on the computer and started searching the internet. She couldn’t find much on sticks, but she ran across plenty of other traditions — tarot, i ching, runes — _runes!_ These appealed to her immediately, and she began reading everything she could find about them, memorizing the signs and their interpretations.

After a a couple of weeks’ research, she found a little on-line shop and ordered a set. When they arrived, though, she was deeply disappointed. They just felt wrong when she picked them up — dead. They were really just a bunch of decorative rocks like the ones they sell at Hobby Lobby. She tossed them in the garbage, and sank into the couch, staring off into space for a long time, the wheels spinning in her head. Then she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Mike? It’s Meena — Anders’ girl.”

“Oh sure, Meena! How’ve you been?”

“Things are good here. How’s the weather been?” _Weather talk, that’s always sure to get a farmer going_ , she smiled to herself as her second cousin Mike took the bait.

“Oh not bad. We had kind of a wet spring — thought maybe the planter would get stuck in the mud a couple of times, but the winter wheat came up just fine, and we’ve got everything else in the ground now. You know, you just got to wait and see. As long as we don’t get no hail storms, we’ll be fine.”

“Oh sure,” Meena fell into the rhythm of his conversation, “how’s Carol?”

“She’s good. Goin’ to see her sister next weekend. Is everything ok? We haven’t heard from you for a long time.”

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just feeling a little nostalgic, I guess. I wondered if I could come down this weekend and wander around a bit — you know, walk through the shelterbelt, and maybe take a little hike up the creek.”

“Oh yeah, that’d be fine. You sure you don’t want to wait until the next weekend, though? We’re takin’ little Mike up to the city to play in the All-state game this weekend. If you wait, Carol’ll put on a spread for you. She’ll be awful upset she’s missed you.”

“Is little Mike that old already? Good heavens, he must not be all that little baby more.”

“Nope, I guess you can't really call ‘im that little anymore,” she could hear the pride in his voice. “He’s gone over six feet now — plays first-string defensive back. Got scholarship coming’ for the fall.”

“You must be awfully proud, Mike — tell ‘im congratulations for me.”

“You bet I will. You’ll wait ’till next week then?”

“I really wish I could, Mike, but I’ve got some things for work that I’ve promised to do next week — this is the only time I can get away.”

“Well, I guess it’ll have to do then. You’ll have to come down again, yeah?”

“Thanks, Mike. Give my love to Carol, and good luck to little Mike.”

“Thanks, will do.”

*****

That Saturday morning, Meena filled a backpack with some sandwiches, a water bottle, and some old towels to sit on, and drove out to where her grandma’s farm used to be. She parked in the gravel access drive by the side of the road, and walked up into the scrubby trees that grew next to a shallow creek. She picked her way down to the creek bed and started to walk carefully upstream, trying to ignore the physical distractions. It wasn’t all that warm, and the water felt a little cold as it soaked into her old sneakers, plus the mosquitos were already pesky, even though it was still the very beginning of June. She worked hard to push all of this out of her head and concentrate. Every once in a while, she would stoop over and pick up a little stone worn smooth by the water. Most she tossed back, but occasionally she hefted one, ran her fingers along the smooth edges, closed her fingers around it, and dropped it into her pack. When she felt certain that she had collected at least twice as many as she needed, she wandered back to the car, ate her dinner by the side of the road, and drove back home.

Once back in her apartment, she cleared off her dining room table and made it into something of a workspace. And after a quick trip to Menard’s for a dremmel tool Sunday morning, she sat down to work. She picked up each stone, weighed it in her hand, sized up its shape, and then carved a little rune into the top. It was late Sunday night when she finally finished, and she fell into bed without even changing her clothes.

That’s the night the dreams started.

****

> Cold.
> 
> Dark.
> 
> At least a foot of snow on the ground, but the night sky was perfectly clear and still — not a wisp of a cloud to block the shimmering stars above. No breeze disturbed the sparkling snow beneath. She wore a heavy black cloak and big, clompy boots. She could hear the sound of the ocean surf somewhere nearby. The landscape was utterly peaceful; she should have been calm. But she could feel her heart thumping in her chest, and she was sweating with tension despite the cold. She was worried about someone. Suddenly she felt a hand on her arm, and she started awake — sitting straight up in bed.

No one was there.

Just her, with the faint trail of the morning summer sun starting to inch through the window blinds. In another 30 minutes, her alarm would go off, and she would head back to work.

She was a bit leery of doing much with the runes after that. After finding a little wooden box for them, she relegated them to an obscure spot on her bookshelves.

****

That next week the first package arrived -- A small box, postmarked from Denmark, but the return address was so smudged that it was illegible. Inside there was no note, just a pretty set of little dala horses.

￼

She smiled as she pulled them out of the tissue paper, and her heart expanded in her chest. _Not abandoned entirely, then,_ she sighed.

The next day she took them to work and set them on her desk. She really didn’t get much done the rest of the day.

Once the package came, she began felt a bit more at ease, and curiosity got the better of her. She pulled the runes out once again to review her handiwork. _Not bad_ , she thought to herself, but they could be better. She set about polishing them a bit, and did a bit more reading about them — she’d found a few books that she snagged through interlibrary loans. She might not know all of the answers, but she was a librarian, dammit, so she knew where to look.

****

> The second dream found her inside what seemed to be some sort of ruins. It was winter once more, and though the walls of the old building remained, the roof was long gone and the floor was filled with drifts of dry snow. A bare spot had been cleared from one end of the structure, and she sat on a low stoop in the middle of that clearing. She was nervous, angry, and worried, but not for herself. _This is stupid,_ her dream-self thought, _why is he doing this? He will never come back._
> 
> “I will be fine!” came an insistent voice from behind her. “Just concentrate. As long as you hold the portal open, I will be fine.”
> 
> She turned to see his tall, athletic silhouette. A light began to emerge from her fingertips, and a hole in creation began to open up before her.

Her heart heaved into her throat and she forced herself awake.

She decided to put the runes aside for a few days.

****

The next week, a second package arrived, once again the return address blurred into illegibility. Inside she found a tiny jewelry box in which were nestled a pair of small pair of amber earrings.

￼

(House of Amber)

As much as she admired them, she couldn’t quite bring herself to wear them. Instead, she set the box on her dresser, leaving it open like a talisman.

A week later came The Little Mermaid snow globe:

￼

 _He must be seriously bored_ , she snickered and pictured him browsing through a souvenir shop – no doubt deliberately rearranging the displays to confuse the shop owner. She set it on her mantle next to the paper model of the Globe Theater and the Jane Austen action figure.

At the start of July a larger box arrived — two sets of Playmobil vikings — a longboat and fortress. She sniggered and dutifully assembled them, making it the centerpiece of her dining room table, playing with the little pieces while she ate supper.

￼

￼

[](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61F31RD6CRL.jpg)   


 

Two weeks after came a set of wineglasses — perhaps to replace the ones she had broken. _Smart ass!_

￼

(by Danish designer Peter Svarrer)

So, she was, apparently, not forgotten.

Certainly she could not forget him, no matter how many miles she logged on the trail or how many pounds she lifted. She practiced her lessons every day – working on her focus, trying to improve her ability to visualize and contain the energy that seemed to ooze out of her now without her having to call it forth.

She also began pouring over Uncle Ole’s journals during her lunch breaks, making notes on every comment about her Nana. At some point, maybe it was close to the summer solstice? – she went to the bank and got the necklace out of the safety deposit box. She hadn’t looked at it in years. Now she sat and held it for hours, memorizing the look and texture of each glass bead. At times it felt almost as though it had a life of its own. Other times, it was just a necklace, inert glass beads that hung loose in her fingers.

The dreams began to come more frequently. Sometimes they were just flashes — snow, stars, stone walls. Sometimes it seemed as though she were looking through the dark into another world — somewhere bleak and colorless moving with vague shadows that looked as though they might have been people — if only they had been more substantial.

In August, another box brought a gorgeous strand of amber beads to match the earrings.

￼

 _A necklace,_ she thought snidely, _of course there would be a necklace._ She placed the velvet box open on her dresser next to the earrings, occasionally running her fingers over the warm beads before closing her eyes and remembering his touch. _Oh you coyote, how did you manage to work your way so far under my skin?_

*****

In September, classes started up again, bringing a welcome distraction. Students came begging for part-time work. New students needed training. New graduate students needed their hands held as they learned the archive’s holdings. Meena almost managed to keep Loki out of her head for whole hours at a time, at least until she sat in chair and closed the office door, or walked the stairs up to her much-too-quiet apartment.

Mid-month she discovered a fairly substantial package waiting in the building lobby along with the meager pile of junk mail. She rushed up to her apartment and slit open the tape before even taking off her jacket. A shiver ran down her spine when she opened it. A heavy, black woolen cloak with intricate green trim — exactly like she wore in her dreams. It was luxurious — soft, fully lined— there were even pockets inside and out. She brought the fabric to her face to feel its texture.

The scent.

It smelled like him.

She buried her face in the fabric and breathed in. _Better than a letter_. Who could blame her if she curled up on the couch with it as she read that night. She gave logic the night off.

￼

(image from <http://www.carpatina.com/WoolcloakGold.html>)

Last of all, in October, just in time for the equinox, came a tiny box with an amber ring. She tried it on every finger, but it would go only on the ring finger of her left hand.

￼

(House of Amber)

And then it would not come off.

 _Dammit. You bastard_ , _Loki. You had better come back after all this._

 

 


	7. Arguing with Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meena wasn’t sleeping well, but somehow she gained comfort from her grandmother’s necklace. She began to wear it all the time, and it felt as though Wilma — her Nana — was still there with her, guiding her.

November was slow and bleak, though unseasonably warm. No new packages arrived, and Meena began to think that Loki had at last lost interest. Toward the end of the month, snow fell in big, fat snowflakes to cover the ugly brown left over from a wet, gloomy fall.

Meena worried that Loki would not keep his promise, and worried just as much that he would. She became increasingly anxious. Her dreams had become more vivid, even as they became more fragmented — she wasn’t sleeping well, but somehow she gained comfort from her grandmother’s necklace. She began to wear it all the time, and it felt as though Wilma — her Nana — was still there with her, guiding her. It often had an inner warmth of its own — exactly at body temperature.

When December came and he did not appear, she doubled her workload at the library, hoping to drown out her thoughts with bureaucratic chores.

A week passed. Another. The second Friday of the month she awoke to an abrupt change in the weather. Temperatures dropped into the single digits, and the snow that had been fat and fluffy turned powdery and dry. _Well, I suppose it couldn’t stay warm all winter. It was bound to get nasty sooner or later._ She slogged through the day, arriving at work while it was still dark and remaining until the custodians came through to lock up. When she finally walked through the apartment lobby, she paused, not really wanting to face the empty apartment. She slowly clomped up the stairs in her winter boots before reluctantly letting herself in and shedding the winter layers.

As she went to hang up her coat, a hand snaked around her waist and she shouted as she threw her elbow back at her assailant. She heard an oomph! and a hand darted up from behind her to cover her mouth while a sniggering laughter came from behind. A tingling warmth spread over her face, waist, and back as she was pulled into a tight embrace, while warm lips whispered across her neck and behind her ear.

She pulled his hand away from her face, “Jesus H. Christ — you scared the living shit out of me!”

Loki snorted, “precisely the effect I was going for.” She shivered when he ran the tip of his tongue and teeth lightly over the edge of her ear and breathed in the smell of her, “mmmmmmm, I missed that scent. Did you miss me?” he asked playfully.

She melted back into his embrace, “I think I’ll take the fifth on that,” she sighed, “you don’t really need an answer, anyway, do you?”

“Mmmm, no, not really,” came his self-satisfied answer. He pointedly picked up her left hand and caressed the ring on her finger. “It suits you.”

“Good thing,” she snarked back, “since it won’t come off. Do you maybe have an explanation for that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” as he continued teasing her neck with is nose and lips, “it’s just a gift for my valkyrie — I like to be remembered.”

“ _Your_ valkyrie?”

“Yes. _Mine_ ,” he repeated, in no uncertain terms.

She sighed once in exasperation, then a second time as she settled into his warmth and the electric cloud that sparkled between them. “What have you been doing all of these months?”

“Research,” he replied cryptically.

“What sort of research?”

He ignored the question, and instead turned her around and sought out her lips.

She tensed, furrowed her brow and pushed him back slightly, “Loki, what were you doing? Did you know I’ve been dreaming?”

He cocked an eyebrow to match a lopsided smile, “Mmmmm, dreaming about me; I like that,” his voice seductively silken.

“Not those kinds of dreams,” she shook her head at herself and grinned briefly, “ . . . not always, anyhow. Loki, I’ve had premonitions. I fashioned a set of runes, and I started seeing things in my sleep.”

He paused briefly as she said this, then frowned as he leaned his forehead against hers, becoming uncharacteristically somber. “I do not wish to speak of it right now. Later. We will speak later.” He leaned down and kissed her once more, opening her mouth, tasting, then sampling, then devouring.

Then he stopped.

Pulled back.

He carefully reached up to the beads that draped around her neck and fell down between her breasts.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

As he touched it, the glass warmed, and began to glow slightly.

Meena instinctively pulled back slightly and put a hand over the necklace — a gesture his sudden tunnel vision ignored completely as he moved with her.

“I had begun to think maybe it didn’t really exist, or that it had been lost.”

“ **MEENA! DON’T YOU LET THAT MAN TOUCH IT!** Don’t you know any better?”

Meena’s face froze, her eyes wide open with fear, and she shoved Loki out of the way.

“Mother, don’t you know who that it? That’s not just a man, that’s HIM — that’s Frigga’s son!”

Meena froze, her hand still on Loki’s chest, fist clutching his shirt to keep him at her side, her face a mask of shock and fear.

There, right in the middle of her living room, stood her grandmother, and what could only have been her own mother, arguing with one another. Her _dead_ grandmother, and the mother _who had died birthing her_.

“Of course I know who that is, Vita! That’s exactly why he shouldn’t be touching it.” Her grandmother looked straight at Meena, jabbing a long finger at her and advancing close, “don’t you trust him, girl — he’s never up to any good.”

The younger woman looked at Wilma earnestly, grabbing at the older woman’s arm, trying to pull her back, “Mom, he’s going to save her. He’s going to fix everything.”

Wilma rounded on her daughter, “Vita, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You never were a good judge of character — especially with men. Always hooking up with losers, and Lars was the worse. Now you want your own flesh and blood to trust Loki? How hard did you hit your head when that bastard shoved you off the porch?”

“Mother, are you going to nag me about that for the rest of eternity? Goddess! That was 40 years ago!”

“And you haven’t learned anything since! Meena, don’t let him take that necklace. It’s your legacy! It’s our legacy, and someday you’ll pass that onto your own daughter — if you ever manage to get hitched.” Meena winced at the jab, even as her mouth hung open in shock. “He wants to take it and make a bargain with Hel. Don’t you trust him.”

“He’s going to save Frigga. Mother, isn’t that worth it?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Vita! Who have you been listening to, now? What has he done? How did he sweet talk you?”

“I know things, Mother. He didn’t have to sweet talk me — I’ve been watching. Do you think I don’t care about who my daughter’s been pining over? Do you think I wouldn’t keep my eyes on him?”

“Do I need to remind you who he is? . . .” And even as they argued, Wilma grabbed Vita’s arm and the two faded away.

Meena fell backward against the wall, all the air rushing out of her lungs, her mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish.

Loki looked at Meena and then back at the empty living room, deadly serious, “What just happened? Meena — what did you see?”

“You didn’t see anything?”

“No.”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

“Nothing.” He repeated his question more slowly, “What did you see?”

“It was my grandmother, and my mother — it had to have been my mother. They were right here, arguing.” Meena walked over to the spot where they had stood. “Right here,” and she pointed to the floor, and then looked up at him.

Loki just nodded.

“They were right here.”

Still he remained silent. Meena’s heart pounded in her chest, the blood rushing through her ears, eyes still wide with panic.

“Nana’s been dead for 10 years, and she was right here. My mother’s been dead for 40. How could they have been in my living room?” The more she thought about it, the louder she spoke and her voice began climbing up the register. “How could you have not seen them? How could my dead mother and grandmother be standing in my living room?”

“Shhhh. It’s the necklace — it connects you to your ancestors.” Loki tried to soothe her and moved to wrap her in his arms, but Meena backed away.

“They were arguing about you.” Loki lowered his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Nana said not to let you touch it, that you wanted it.”

“Meena,” came his softest voice, and he took another step toward her to caress her cheek.

“Loki, why would she say that? Why would Nana say that?”

“Shhhh, shhh, shh.” He took her in his arms and stroked her arm.

“You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes. I believe you.”

“You’re no just saying that?”

“No, Dearheart, I have seen much, much stranger things.” He pulled her closer and ran his hand down her back, soothing her, and her heart rate began to return to normal.

“How long have you been wearing it?”

“I brought it home at mid-summer, but I started wearing it a month ago.”

“All the time?”

“Most of the time.”

“And when did the dreams start?”

“June.”

“Constantly? Or just occasionally.”

“Only when I worked with the runes, at first, then more frequently once I brought the necklace home. Not every night, though.”

“Is this the first time you’ve seen your grandmother?”

“Yes . . . No . . . I’m not sure now. Many of the dreams were muddy.”

“What about your mother?”

“I’ve never seen her before. Ever.” Meena scrubbed her face to try and ground herself once more. “She seemed to like you. It sounded as though she’s been following you — how is that even possible?” closing her eyes, and trying to calm herself, to breath normally before she looked him in the eyes once more, her voice suddenly sharper, “Nana did not like you. . . . At all.”

Loki frowned, pulling her close and resting his chin on top of her head as he contemplated this information.

“She said not to trust you. Loki, what were you doing this summer, and why would Mother know about it?”

“I told you — I was doing research. And the dead . . . well, the dead see much more than the living would care to know.”

Meena’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She pulled back from him again so she could see his face. “Researching what? Nana said you want the necklace, that you are going to take it to Hel.”

He pursed his lips, and didn’t answer right away. Instead he stood still, reading her face for a very long time. “I think,” he finally began, “that now is not the time to discuss this. I am tired, and you are understandably upset.” He turned her around once more so his hands could explore her softest places.

Meena struggled with him, “Loki, stop. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Shhh. Later.” His fingers traced the line of her collar bone, skirting the edge of the necklace as it followed her curves. He brushed lightly over her breast, and her body responded on its own, over-riding her rational self — just as he knew it would — the adrenaline rush of her fear turning into a puddle of desire. “Right now,” he whispered, moving so his lips hovered right next to her ear, “I would like nothing better than for you to cook for me.” She could feel the smile that tweaked the corners of his mouth, and her breath came out in a rush as her eyes closed.

“I’m not going to forget.” It was a weak, last ditch attempt to forestall him, but they both knew he had won this round.

“No. I didn’t expect you to.” His voice came soft and low before his mouth traced a slow trail of kisses down her neck. “It’s just that I am so very hungry.”

“Did you have any specific requests?”

“Mmmmmmm, yes. I did a bit of exploring on the internet while I was gone, and would very much like you to make a bit of chocolate fondue.” Somehow he actually made his voice sound like chocolate sauce as he said it.

“I could do that,” she sighed as her knees got a bit wobbly. “What sorts of things would you like to go with it?”

“Nothing,” he rumbled into her ear, “just you,” and he tightened his arms around her, chuckling as her knees gave way completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The necklace pictured here is from a museum. Beads of glass, gold foil, silver, rock crystal and carnelian from a grave find, Björkö, Adelsö, Uppland, Sweden.  
> I found the image on Pinterest.


	8. Sacred Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what you would call a vacation.

The morning dawned bright and clear, the sun blindingly bright through the windows as it reflected the new snow. Loki’s mood, however, was subdued. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling as Meena curled herself around him. She felt a difference in the energy between them, and furrowed her brow as she lightly traced his collarbone, and the curves of his chest.

He shifted slightly to cover her hand with his own, and spoke in a somber voice, “Tell me about your dreams.”

She furrowed her brow and paused before she responded, “There is never a narrative, only flashes — both of images and emotions, sometimes sounds. It is always winter. I can hear the ocean, though I never see it. I am wearing the cloak you sent.” She glanced up at him as she added that detail, trying to gage his reaction, but his face remained neutral. “Sometimes I see the ruins of an ancient church. Often I am inside them. I am always worried, anxious for someone.” Here she cleared her throat and sat up to face him as if to scold him. He caught her look, but he only responded by pulling her into a full embrace.

She let out a exasperated huff, then continued, “We are alone, but in the most vivid dreams there is a door or a window that looks into some other place. There are people there, at least, they could be people — but they are only shadows. And you are not always . . .” She worked here to find words to fit. “You are not exactly yourself. I mean, I know it’s you, but you are . . .” Here she stopped once more, because it sounded impossible when she put words to what she though she had seen.

“My complexion?”

“Yes.”

“It changes.”

“Yes.”

He hesitated a bit, as searching for a way to explain something, but she interrupted his train of thought, “Loki, where did that window lead to? Who are those shadows?”

He blinked, having been preparing for an entirely different conversation, and it surprised him into an honesty he hadn’t planned, “They are the dead.”

The little hairs on her arms all stood on end, “The dead?”

“Yes.”

The confirmation opened a pit in her stomach, “I was looking through a window into Hel.”

His fingers played distractedly with hers and he repeated himself, “A door. Yes.”

“So Nana was right. Why would I be doing that?” She pulled back out of his embrace once more so she could see his eyes. “Loki, what are you going to do?”

His mouth drew into a tight, thin line, and he refused to look at her.

“Loki.”

Still nothing.

Her voice became barely audible, “Loki, please.”

“‘Vilhemina, the fierce protector.’ Do you think you can protect me?” His smile was both affectionate and melancholy. “I am not one of your students, Meena. What would you possibly hope to do in the face of any power that might threaten me?”

Meena watched the clouds that haunted him as his smile faded. She ran her thumb across his cheekbone to smooth away the tension, and she took in every detail of his expression.

The gesture pulled him out of himself, _she will have to know eventually_ , he sighed to himself. His mouth curved into another empty smile as he answered her, “Your grandmother was right. I am going to Hel.”

She swallowed hard, trying to keep both fear and anger in check until he had explained himself.

“I am going to Hel — to Valhalla — to seek an audience with, well, Hel.”

She sat up completely, and for a long while couldn’t say anything. She clenched her teeth and balled up her fists, working to get her voice under control before the tirade began. “I’m not sure whether to be more angry for your leading me on, or more angry for your stupidity. You can’t. — No. — Just . . . No! . . . No one comes back from death. You can’t do that. I won’t help you do that. I won’t let you do that.”

“You have to. I am going to bring Frigga back from Valhalla.”

“That’s insane. Death does not make bargains like that.”

“No, I am not insane, and yes, she will bargain with me.” He sat up to face her — completely earnest. “It was a mistake — Frigga’s death was a mistake. She should not be there. I am simply going to fix a mistake.”

“You will never come back.”

“I have a plan. We are related, you know — Hel and I — she will bargain with me.”

Irrationally, Meena felt herself shift into MommaBearMeena, “That hardly seems to make much difference with most immortals, from what I’ve read. Besides, how do you bargain with Death? She doesn’t just hold all of the cards, she’s got all of the chips, plus collects the interest on all of the loans. What she doesn’t have, she knows she’ll get eventually — she just has to wait long enough. You have nothing that will not eventually be hers, anyway.”

“You must trust me.”

But she could feel it in the cloud of energy that sparked between them. She could see it in his eyes. “Why do you have a death wish? You know you will never come back.”

“I came back to you, did I not?”

She had no answer for that.

He pulled her back down into his embrace. “My valkyrie will open the way for me to walk into Hel. Once there, I can fend for myself. I will not need your protection, neither will I abandon you.”

Meena closed her eyes in frustration, _You are a liar._

*****

Despite everything, she still found herself trudging next to the Danish coastline on December the 21st, after many days of promises, half-threats, speeches, and persuasive caresses. So here, on the darkest day of the year — Winter Solstice — her boots squeaked in the snow at every step, while her black cloak billowed around her, and she wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck. They made their way toward a set of ruins sitting forlornly in the darkness.

“My research,” he had finally explained to her, “was to find a place where the tissue between your world and the realm of the dead is the finest. I visited dozens of tiny churches and abandoned places.”

“Churches?”

“Of course. You should know as well as I do that most churches were built atop pagan shrines. A sacred space remains sacred no matter how much holy water St. Olaf poured atop the stones.” He seemed to derive great amusement from this pronouncement. “Many of them are preserved as historic sites these days — tourist traps.”

“Ah. That would explain the snow globe, and toy vikings.”

“Yes, well, I have a weakness for shiny things.”

“Hmph. I have always thought a magpie would make an excellent mascot for you.”

He spared her an annoyed look before he continued. “At any rate. I tromped all over western Europe — your ancestors were quite the travelers. The Vikings left little bits of themselves everywhere, seemingly. I found some quite promising spots in Ireland, but they would have opened up into a space too far away from where I need to end up.”

“That would explain the cloak, then.”

He smiled smugly. “As it turned out, I finally decided that the best spot would have to be in Denmark somewhere — they ran an impressive empire for quite a long time, so I concluded that was where I needed to return. I eventually found the perfect spot right on the coastline, and at this time of year, there will certainly be no danger of tourists interrupting us.”

As in her dreams, the weather remained perfectly clear — powdery snow squealing like styrofoam under their boots, cold stars glittering in the clear skies above. Meena pulled her cloak more tightly against herself as they approached the broken stone building. The roof was long gone, the windows, as well. In many places, the walls stood at only half their original height, because they had been plundered for their stones. Once inside, the shelter did little to warm the cold knot in the pit of her stomach. As they approached that spot where the alter had once rested, her steps slowed. _Why did I agree to this? This is suicide. He will never come back._ She watched him stride up to a stone slab on the floor and beckon to her.

Loki wore no coat and seemed perfectly indifferent to the cold.

 _He’s blue_. Her brain registered the fact, but she was more surprised at her own nonchalance than about the change. She moved to stand opposite him, and her eyes wandered over his face before coming to rest on his eyes — his red eyes.

“You’re blue.” Her voice was flat.

“It’s easier to deal with the cold this way.” Was the only explanation he offered. She shrugged and nodded. Meena had become difficult to shock.

A wave of his hand cleared the snow from the remains of the altar, and he helped her climb onto the stone and kneel on top of a woolen pillow he had brought. As soon as her foot touched the stone, she could feel a change in the energy that flowed beneath it. As she knelt, it was like kneeling in a pool of lukewarm water — energy eddied around her knees and she began to feel a bit punchy from it, her emotions bubbled to the surface, and she felt tears prick the edges of her eyes. She reached out to caress his face as he knelt in front of her, “You don’t have to do this.”

He took her hand and spoke as though he hadn’t heard. “Once you call up the energy, picture a doorway, just like the one in your dreams. You will get warm, so before I walk through, I will take your cloak off. As long as you remain focused, the portal will remain open. Just concentrate, and I will be able to return.”

“You will take it, won’t you? That’s the bargain you plan to make.”

“Yes. But is she not worth that price?”

“I note that it is not your sacrifice.”

“My sacrifice will be of another nature altogether.”

And as much as she hated it, Meena felt a tear roll down her cheek before she broke his gaze. _This is stupid_. _Why is he doing this? He will never come back._

“I will be fine!” came his insistent voice from behind her. “Just concentrate. As long as you hold the portal open, I will be fine.”

She turned to see his tall, slim silhouette.

Shifting back, she took a great gulp of air, closed her eyes, and “saw” the energy that sloshed beneath her. She reached out with her own, connected with it, and began to draw it up into herself.

Loki paused for a long time after she looked away, working to suppress the mess of emotions churning in his chest. He would feel later. He would have an eternity to indulge in self-recriminations. He could not afford to indulge in them now.

He stepped back and drew himself to his full height, watching as her face schooled itself into focus, as her breathing slowed and her back straightened while the energy filled her from below. The necklace began to glow blue. Then she threw her head back and opened her arms wide as if casting a net.

As she did so, Loki saw the doorway form, growing up from the earth beneath it, at first translucent, and then growing gradually more solid, until the ancient portal appeared just as solid as the stone on which she knelt, and the oaken door swung open into Hel.

Loki paused at the entrance, settling his face into an unreadable mask. Before he entered, he stepped over to Meena and removed her cloak, noting that her skin was already flushed with heat, a light sheen of sweat on her upper lip. He brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face, lifted the necklace over her head, straightened himself once more and strode through the door.

*****

He stepped into utter silence.

He no longer heard the pounding surf of the coast.

The wind stopped.

His boots left sloppy bits of snow as he crossed a grey, dusty landscape to pause before a great mead hall whose dimensions seemed incalculable. Enormous timbers supported gabled rooftops gilded with the cold glitter of gold inlay. Loki stood in a great courtyard, facing the steps that lead to a set of heavy wooden doors, hinged with black iron.

Loki planted his feet firmly in the grey dust before those doors and called out, “Greetings, great Queen of Death! Loki of Nowhere — neither Asgard nor Jotenheim — calls out to you. I crave audience with you, oh Hel, Lokisdottir! I come to bargain with you.”

Silently, for how else would they, the massive doors of Valhalla gaped open, and out from the gates of the great mead hall strode Hel, followed by her retinue. Tall, she stood. Draped in a tattered gown, wrapped in tattered robes that fluttered though there was no breeze. She glanced to her right, revealing a face of devastating, angular beauty, blue eyed, pale, so like her father. Then she glanced up to face her visitor, revealing her other half — a mouth pulled back into the grinning leer of the long dead, eye socket empty save for a pale light gleaming from within. Those that followed her were mere shadows, a mute cluster of pale ghosts, vague remembrances of all they had once been.

Hel descended the steps of her home slowly, as if she had all of eternity in which to conduct these negotiations — which, of course, she did.

“I have heard rumors of your embassage, Loki,” she nodded at her retinue, where Loki could see a shape uncannily like Meena’s, what could only have been her mother. “And I have heard guesses as to its purpose. Have you really found this thing, Frigga’s gift?”

Loki raised his gauntleted hand; the necklace still glowed blue and radiated a warmth he could feel even through his glove.

Three shades separated from the group, drifting toward him, as though drawn by a magnet. Two were once mortal — Meena’s mother and grandmother. Loki had no eyes for them; his gaze riveted itself on the third — tall and proud, even as a shadow of death.

“Frigga.” His voice strained tight with the effort it took to control it.

Her response came to him as if it were born on the wind from far away, “Why do you court death, Loki?”

“For you.” He clenched the artifact as he fought to keep from trembling. “You should not have died. It was not yet your time, and I will set things right.”

Frigga’s eyes, mournful before, looked as though they would drop tears of lead, “You do not know what sort of bargain you seek.”

Hel smiled grimly, fleshly lips curling up to mock the chapless maw of her other half. “She speaks the truth, Oh God of Misdirection. I believe your research has been incomplete. You may have her, but she cannot return to the world as she was. Regardless of whether her death was,” and here her smile — if possible — became even more sardonic, “ _timely_ , the thread of her life has been severed. Frigga no longer has a corporeal form in which to return. I will grant her passage out in return for the artifact, but she will depart as a shadow, and will remain so until the end of days.”

Hel stepped out onto the dusty courtyard to bridge the distance between them, “That is my bargain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly mashing up MCU and Norse myth creates oddness. Once again, I have taken "artistic license." Thank you for your patience.


	9. Making Bargains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hel stared out at him through her ashen face, utterly stoic once more. She was not one whom Loki could charm. She just didn’t care.

_“That is my bargain.”_

Hel stared out at him through her ashen face, utterly stoic once more. She was not one whom Loki could charm. She just didn’t care. 

“Frigga’s life line has been severed, whether the Norns originally planned it that way or not. She is dead, and will always be dead. I can permit you to take her shade with you, but she will forever be just that — a shadow. Your gift will grant her just that release, no more.”

At this pronouncement, Hel moved to within an arm’s length in order to accept his offer. “There is one thing more, however. If you take one of my subjects, you must supply her lack. You must give me another soul in exchange for hers.”

“My presence implies that offer.”

“No.” Hel’s fleshly lips pulled back once more in a cruel sneer. “I want a soul of _value_.”

Fire lit up in Loki’s eyes, “How does my soul have no value to you?”

“Because it has no value to _you_. For what is precious, something precious must be rendered. You must give me Vilhemena.”

Loki’s chest went cold.

“Vilhemena is a mortal. How is she more precious to you than I?”

“She is not precious to me. All souls weigh the same here. To _you_. She is precious to you, and as it is your bargain, that is how her worth is measured.”

Loki’s face turned red with rage, with embarrassment, with impotent frustration. Looking back at the portal, he could see Meena’s kneeling form suffused with the energy coursing through her as she held open the portal, her face completely absorbed in her task. 

Wilma and Vita drifted close to the portal, arguing with one another — “do you see what he is, now?” raged Wilma, “do you see the bargain he will strike? This is the way of the gods, to see our lives as game pieces, burnished brightly before traded away for another prize of greater value. And Loki is the worst. He hates himself, and measures everyone else by that same scale. He cares only how the price is set by those he bargains with.”

Hel remained unmoved. Her words were, for her, merely a statement of fact. All souls would be hers in the end, but it was so much more satisfying when they came at a price. She was, after all, her father’s daughter.

Meena heard nothing of all this. All of her consciousness absorbed itself in her task. She held the energy just barely in check as it flowed up through her legs, filled her entirely, and then poured out of her hands to hold open the door — Helmouth. As time passed, though, her temperature began to rise. Sweat trickled down her back. Her flesh began to feel flushed and feverish. Her breath started to come in quicker, shallower periods. She would not abandon him, however. That’s just not what she did. She was a protector, even if she was trying to protect a god with a death wish.

Hel silently made note of all this while Loki wavered. 

“You will have to decide quickly,” Hel observed coldly. “Before much longer, she will begin to burn. Then you will lose both of them, and you will have no choice to make.”

Loki turned back to face Meena, recognizing immediately the signs of her physical distress. He turned to face Frigga’ shadow. She moved forward, nodding “you will have to choose, Loki. Will your life be consumed by the dead, or will you resign yourself to the living?”

He turned back to face Hel, scowling, inclined his head to his mother, then turned again toward Meena.

He chose life.

He pocketed the necklace, and his long stride rapidly brought him back through the portal. Meena remained absorbed in her task, oblivious to his presence, but the signs of her fever were increasingly obvious. She began shaking; her mouth hung open as her breath came in rapid, shallow pants; her pupils had nearly swallowed up the irises. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her out of position in order to break contact with the energy stream. A great strobe of light flashed out, and the portal closed, leaving Meena’s trembling, feverish form in Loki’s arms. Holding her close, he draped the necklace back over her head, before lowering his own body temperature in an attempt to bring down her fever. Slowly, much more slowly than he liked, her breathing slowed to a more normal rate. Her skin returned to a more healthy hue, and she seemed to drop into the deep sleep of exhaustion, rather than the hot coma of fever dreams. 

His valkyrie would not be serving in Valhalla today. She would go home.

*****

When Meena awoke, she felt as though she were emerging from a sand pit. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyelids weighted. Everything ached. She reached up to rub her forehead and groaned as she rolled onto her back.

“Ah, my warrior awakes.”

“Ohhhhh, I feel as though I’ve been in battle. Do you have any ibuprofen?” Meena pried open her eyes and peered up at Loki as he came to sit next to her on the bed.

The bed. _What bed?_ “Where are we? What happened?”

“Shhh, we are in a hotel — I thought you could use a bit of a vacation before you went home.” He brushed the hair back from her face, then leaned down to place a soft kiss on her forehead.

She glanced around the dimly lit room. “It’s awfully nice — how are we paying for this?”

He snorted, “Always the frugal Dane. I have a grant from the Danish government,” he smirked.

“Loki — really?”

“Oh ye of little faith. I have my resources, don’t worry.”

Meena closed her eyes again — even the dim light of the room felt painful, “Since when do you quote the Bible?”

“There is precious little reading material available here. I had to do something while you slept — it was either that or The Book of Mormon. I have to say it was very educational — though I cannot understand how anyone could form a coherent religion based on what I read.”

She laughed, and then instantly regretted it as she brought her hands to her head. “Oh ow! Yes, well, you may find that most Christians read the Bible a bit selectively.”

“Hmph. Are you hungry? I can have room service bring something up.”

“I think tea and toast may be all I can handle just now.”

“I will take care of it.” He walked to the desk and made a call downstairs. 

As he did so, Meena carefully adjusted the pillows so she could prop her self up, and felt something familiar move against her chest — Nana’s necklace. Without even thinking, her hand went up to her chest, feeling the familiar weight of the beads.

She looked up at Loki as he returned, “It didn’t work, then?”

“She did not bargain in good faith,” he made a face, “the price she asked was not one I was willing to pay.”

Meena reached for him, caressing his arm, “I am sorry you could not get what you wanted.” 

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “On the other hand,” and she smiled a sad sort of smile, “if that’s why you came back to me, I cannot say that I’m so very sorry.”

“Rest again while you wait for your breakfast. You are not yet recovered.”

She couldn’t argue with that, so closed her eyes while he massaged her forehead.

She woke to the sound of silverware tinkling in china. “Here, sit up, dearheart, and drink a bit of tea to soothe your throat. I’ve had them bring up some toast and fruit, as well.”

“Mmm, thank you.” She winced a bit at she shifted on the bed before taking the cup he held out for her.

“After you’ve eaten a bit, maybe you would like a warm bath?”

“That sounds lovely.” Meena closed her eyes and breathed in the steam wafting off the hot tea. _Lemon and honey_. The smell alone seemed to act as a restorative. She heard water running from the other room before Loki appeared once more and sat on the bed beside her.

“Feeling any better?”

“A bit, thank you. How long was I asleep?” She craned her head, but couldn’t find a clock.

“A little over a day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. It was a bit difficult getting you up to the room without anyone trying to call an ambulance for you, but I have a few tricks left.” He smiled.

She shook her head. “I remember almost nothing after you stepped through the door. A grey landscape. A few shapes. I could swear I saw Mother and Nana again. Other than that, nothing.”

“You were exhausted. I imagine that once you’ve recovered you will be ravenous.”

“Once I’ve recovered. Right now everything aches as though I’ve had the flu.”

Loki watched her in silence for a while, as though he were memorizing her features, until Meena began to get a little squirmy under his pensive eyes, and broke the silence, “What?”

He took a deep breath as though trying to find the precise words to convey his thoughts, “I have been thinking about how I might repay you for your help. I would like to give you a gift.”

Meena blushed and looked away, “I didn’t do this expecting payment.”

“That is not the point. Or rather, that is precisely the point. You acted out of your care for me, and the effort nearly cost your life.” She started a bit at his words, and furrowed her brow. “Such sacrifice is rare, and so makes your gift more precious.” He chose his words deliberately. “I would like to give you something equally precious.” Here he paused for a bit, searching her face as she looked at him quizzically. “You may decide you do not want it, but I want to make the offer.”

Meena cocked her head, at a loss as to what he might have in mind.

“I have noted that your lineage, your heritage, weighs on you, and that you wish to preserve it, but because of your age, and the life you have chosen for yourself, it seems unlikely that you will be able to pass on that legacy.” She winced at his honesty, but didn’t interrupt. “I would like to offer you the chance to become a mother, to sire a child for you so that you may pass on your gift to another generation.” 

Her eyes grew suddenly wide. She opened her mouth to speak, but was utterly unable to form words.

“Don’t answer now. You should think about it first. Especially because you must know that I will not be able to stay with you for the entirety of the child’s life. I will, of course, visit often, even if you decline my offer. I would help see you through what might be an odd pregnancy and birth for your species. I would also do what I can to help supply the material needs of the child — I would not abandon you. I’m sure you know, however, that I do not belong here. I cannot live permanently in your world, nor you in mine. So you must weigh your decision carefully. But I wanted to give my valkyrie the opportunity to leave her own legacy.”

Meena remained speechless, mouth hanging open, and rather than stay and seem as though he were pushing for an answer, Loki leaned over to kiss her temple and went to check the water in the bath.

Meena carefully set the cup back on its saucer, and just as carefully set it on the bedside table, eyes flitting around the room, down to stare at her hands, then up at the ceiling. She let out a great whoosh of air, completely dumbfounded. When Loki returned she was still at a loss, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything right now. Just rest and think about it.” 

He held out his hand to help her to the edge of the bed, and then moved to sit behind her. “What . . .?”

“Shh” — she felt his hand on her shoulder, and then the soft pull of a comb as he gently detangled her hair, and pulled it back into a braid. 

She closed her eyes with pleasure as he played with her hair, “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Well, someone had to braid Thor’s hair before he stomped off into battle, and once he was grown, he wouldn’t let his mother do it.” She snorted at the image of Loki braiding the great thunder god’s hair.

“You are a god of many hidden talents.”

“You have no idea,” and he kissed her neck before standing up to help her into the bathroom. As she got out of bed she ran her hand over her front, noticing for the first time that he had changed her out of her clothes and into a shift — not one she recognized. _Pretty — and so soft._ She smiled up at him, “you’ve been busy, I see.” He shrugged.

Stepping into the next room, she was a bit taken aback at the luxury of the suite, “the bath is enormous!” He just chuckled, helping her out of her clothes and into the warm, bubbly water.

She sank down into the tub, then felt his hand on her back gently pushing her to sit up and move forward. She smiled again when she felt Loki climb into the tub behind her. He kept one hand on her back as the other slowly ran a washcloth over her neck, soothing her aching muscles, allowing the water to cascade down her back and over her breasts. He worked his way slowly from her neck, over her shoulders, and down her arms and back, before he pulled her up against him. Then he started up under her chin, running the cloth up under her ears, and down her neck. After submersing the cloth once more in the warm water, he worked his way over her chest and dipped down and around her breasts. She sighed deeply, resting her forearms on his legs, as he ran the cloth first over one and then the other breast, paying extra attention to the nipples that now begged to be touched. The water glowed faintly with their energy, and Loki directed it into healing her sore muscles, the sparkle of energy making the bathwater feel as though she were immersed in seltzer water. 

She arched up into his caresses, sighing again as the aches melted away.

Loki reached forward and moved to caress her calves, then up her thigh. She couldn’t help the little notes of pleasure that hummed in her throat, or the way her fingers held tight to his thighs as she pushed back against him, his mouth trailing soft kisses over her neck and shoulder. After her release, he cradled her in his arms. “Shhhh,” came his soothing voice, “rest now. There will be more than enough time for other things once you’re well.” He didn’t bother repressing the rumble of pleasure that rose from deep in his chest.

*****

[Feb. 14, 2070]

“Meena . . . Meena.”

She slowly opened her eyes, coaxed out of her nap by his familiar, soothing voice as he sang her name. “There you are,” she smiled. “I think I am about finished here, and ready for what comes after.”

“Yes.” He sighed, brushing her white hair back from her forehead. “Lykke seems to have taken care of everything.”

“I knew she would. She is so clever. Just like her father.” She brushed her fingers across his cheek before moving back habitually to her own neck. _Oh yes_ , she remembered, _Lykke has it now_. “You will look after her?”

“Do you doubt that, dearheart?” And he reached out for her hand, enveloping it in his own.

“No.” She smiled again. “You kept your promise. You never abandoned us.” She closed her eyes, and then grimaced in frustration. “I am so tired all the time,” she sighed, but kept hold of his hand. After a pause, her eyes opened again briefly, “Where is she?”

“I’m right here, Momma.”

Lykke came to stand next to the bed, and took Meena’s other hand. Her intense blue eyes — like sapphires — moved between her parents. They were so different. Loki hadn’t aged at all — still raven-haired, eyes clear — while her mother had shrunk in the past few years, until it seemed to Lykke as though she watched her mother through a time-lapse film as the life force drained out of her. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“Don’t cry, Lykke. I’m ready. I have made my peace with Death, and I have left my legacy with you.” She took a long, heavy breath. “I am ready to sleep.”

And she did. 

And dreamed of great tables laden with food and drink, where her ancestors were honored at Frigga’s high table. 

And even Hel offered a respected salute to her newest in-law.

  



End file.
